


Sand and Silver

by WhoGroovesOn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dragon Riders, Dragons, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Slow Build, Telepathic Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 13:17:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 125,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1606529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoGroovesOn/pseuds/WhoGroovesOn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John lived his life with his feet firmly on the ground and a strong fear of flying. After an accident on the battlefield sends him home with a wound and a dragon, his new flatmate Sherlock takes it upon himself to cure John's fears and show him that flying as a dragon rider can be just as exhilarating as running on the battlefields, especially when there are murders to be solved and a killer is lurking in London Aerie.</p><p>Check the chapter notes for additional tags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Run

**Author's Note:**

> I can't begin to thank nautilicious enough for being my beta.

Shrill cries rent the air as battle raged in the skies above. Scales flashed in the sun of a perfectly clear scorching day while the initial clash of combat began. Great winged bodies weaved and tangled as their riders led them through maneuvers that, to an onlooker, appeared would fling them from the great creatures’ shoulders. Colors mingled as the enemy dealt the first blows and riders avoided gouts of fire.

Then the first massive body plummeted to the ground.

John Watson, a medic with the ground troops, responded first. Not all war was borne on wings; the wings only brought additional danger. A stream of fire, a low running wing, a close-contact skirmish taken to the ground, these added obstacles that running men prayed they’d never see.

He ran to the body of the fallen dragon, a stunning dark green, with a young rider stuck in his saddle astride its neck. The rider was screaming when John arrived. The dragon had hit the ground hard. The unfortunate creature was only faintly twitching, its jaws open and emitting a low, broken, wheezing sound. There was no helping the poor beast. John felt bad for it, but he had only come for its rider. The rider was still alive, badly wounded and bleeding but alive, with the corpse of his dragon crushing one of his legs.

John went to the terrified rider, casting his med pack on the sand nearby.

“Hush, hush now, I’ve got you,” He crooned, grabbing the rider’s face. He seemed just a boy to John; he couldn’t have been more than a year or two beyond his teens.

“I’ve got you, you will get out of this. Do you understand?” he said, as the young man’s breaths continued to leave him in great sobs. The words were hollow reassurances as John surveyed the boy’s wounds. Crash victims did not usually survive, and this one appeared no different. John had seen so many riders die falling with their dragons in the past weeks. Even though he had been warned of the high fatality rate with crashed riders, it made it no less disheartening with every fallen dragon he checked for survivors. This rider had already sustained a few bleeding lacerations in the air deep enough to have torn through the thick armor of a rider, but it was the internal injuries that would claim this young man’s life. Blood was beginning to form at his lips, broken ribs, punctured lung, ruptured organs, any of them would take him in the time it would take to move the dragon’s body off of him. 

Even as John knelt by him, he could see the boy’s life slipping quickly away. The young man’s panicked rattling breathing slowed, and his eyes lost their focus. All John could offer were comforting words as the rider slipped into unconsciousness and ceased breathing. He closed the boy’s eyes and John shifted away, picking up his pack as he ducked behind the dragon’s neck and prepared to run on to the next person in need of aid. By then a handful of soldiers had grouped behind the hulking corpse of the beast, using its thick hide for a wall as the battle raged on; even dead, a dragon could be an asset of sorts. Coming to the creature’s head immediately revealed its cause of death; a much larger dragon appeared to have gotten its neck in its maw and broken it. The sad wheezing noise he’d heard as he approached had been its final breaths escaping what most likely was a crushed windpipe. Blood rapidly pooled out onto the sand from the large, gory fang wounds ripped into a compressed portion of its long neck.

The size of the marks struck fear into John’s heart, a dragon that big was rare on the battlefield and even more dangerous; he needed to get back to his unit.

Thud!

Right near his position, ducked behind the crown of the dead dragon’s head, a body dropped out of the sky, landing in a great huff of sand with a wet organic thump. John saw that the corpse, in its small crater, less than twenty feet from him, was the shattered remains of an enemy rider. He had been ripped from his harness and the remains of the belts still hung around his torso in tatters. Large tooth marks bled profusely into the sand from where a dragon had torn him free and slung him from his mount, not a common tactic, but one John had seen enough times to recognize the always disgusting result.

John heard the familiar sound of a soldier shouting “Watson! Watson!” before the voice was drowned out by the beating of wings far too close to the ground. A pair had come down to the sand, a large red dragon tangled with an absolutely massive black. The red carried a rider hanging half out of her saddle as she wielded her sword, stabbing into the black monster’s neck. The black was riderless but still in mangled flightgear; the shredded man on the sand must have been its rider. 

The pair rolled along the sand together, wings flinging great swaths of sand into the air. The remaining rider slipped her thin sword between the black’s tough scales, leaving open slices for her dragon to rend open further. She nimbly moved along her harness to avoid being crushed in the skirmish or wounded by massive flailing claws. All the while John could only watch in horror as the huge beasts moved closer to where he was ducked. But move he did; John was forced to fling himself away from his cover as the riderless black was hurled down by the red and skidded across the sand in his direction. 

He ran across open battlefield away from the scene, running with the other soldiers to get more distance from the twirling pair. He ended up diving behind the wall of a crumbled building along with five other comrades from his unit. They all lay there catching their breath, sweaty and sticky and covered in sand, before one of them turned to John and with a crooked-toothed smile panted.

“Just another day in the trenches, eh Watson?” before the lot of them started giggling hysterically at their grim circumstances. One of the five groaned and stopped laughing, and John set about mending his wounds. _Yeah another day in the trenches_ John thought as he peeked over the wall to see the red dragon and the woman back in the saddle, perched on the neck of the now downed black. She took her beast to the sky once more to rejoin the flashing scales above.

A few more crumbling walls hopped, a few more wounded bandaged, a couple more massive dragon carcasses checked for survivors, and John rejoined the bulk of his unit in a newly taken section on the edge of the dilapidated village where they had set up camp. The enemy dragon riders had retreated, the aerial clashes abated for the time being, though that was no guarantee that there wouldn’t be a surprise razing from the sky. A couple smaller drakes had been left to protect the soldiers on the ground.

John was just finishing stitching a nasty gash on a soldier’s leg when a call came from the edge of camp.

“Watson, there’s somebody out there,” the soldier said, pointing out towards a patch of scrub brush in the distance. There was a large billowing shape of fabric snagged in the bushes, a parachute.

He picked up his kit and started out towards the shape, watching carefully for signs that it might be a trap of some kind.

The man attached to the parachute was in bad shape. The chute had saved him from his fall, but he had sustained injuries in the fight beforehand. He had gashes across his belly, legs, and arms, penetrating his armor and allowing him to bleed out heavily onto the sand. There was no telling how long he had been laying there, but he was barely conscious when John reached him.

“London born and bred and a dragon at my side… London born and bred… London…” He was murmuring to himself in a singsong voice vaguely to the tune of ‘yellow submarine’, delirious and tapering off as John got closer.

“You boys aren’t supposed to be down here,” John said calmly, as he knelt down with his kit and started to undo the rider’s armor to check the extent of the damage.

“No… no we’re not,” the man slurred in response, squinting up at John. John moved to block the sun from the injured man’s eyes, since his helmet and eye cover were missing.

John pulled a hiss through his teeth as he peeled back the soaked uniform from the rider’s chest. It was worse than it looked. He sighed, scrubbing a hand across his eyes, grimacing, another dying rider lay at his feet. The wounds he’d sustained were too severe, and had been left for far too long. He could only make the downed rider comfortable in his final moments.

“Have you seen my baby?” the rider mumbled up at him, while John prepared to give him a dose of painkiller.

“No, I haven’t, do you have any pictures of them?” John absentmindedly asked, dragon riders weren’t known for having families as far as he was aware, maybe this one was a rare exception, and in that case he felt sorry for the soon to be widowed mother.

“Nah, I was flying with him just a moment ago…” he sighed and began to cough. “Don’t need pictures when I’ve got him with me all the time, do I?” He rattled after the coughing fit had died down leaving his lips spattered with drops of scarlet.

Ah, his dragon. John hadn’t seen any scaly corpses nearby, maybe it was captured? Though that was highly unlikely, since dragons usually defended their riders to the death.

“I haven’t seen him. Do you want to tell me about him? Maybe I’ll see him later,” John said. He knew very little about dragons; their riders, yes, he had been trained for humans. But dragon riders were almost a breed of their own, keeping to aeries with specially trained doctors and facilities designed for dragons. John mostly knew about dead dragons, because if they hit the ground in combat they rarely survived. A rider on the ground seldom survived, either, which John knew would be the case with the dying man before him.

The rider chuckled wearily, “Oooh my boy, he’s fuckin gorgeous I tell you, smart as a whip, big as they come. Great big brown ass in the sky!” he laughed before returning to a hacking fit. John brought his canteen to his lips to give the man a bit of water. The coughing died down, but the man continued to wither.

“Big brown baby, Hyperion…” he chuckled as tears streamed down the sides of his face.

“What’s your name?” John asked.

“Victor,” he coughed quietly. His eyes glazed over and seemed to be having trouble keeping them open. He was fading fast. 

The loud click of a gun accompanied by harsh words in a foreign tongue stopped any response John had for Victor. He turned to see a man, waist deep in the brush, with his face covered, pointing a pistol at the pair of them. John slowly raised his hands up in the international sign for surrender.

“I am a medic. A doctor!” He said loudly and clearly at the intruder, and praying that the man understood at least the word ‘doctor.’ What he would give for the days when the big red cross on an armband was common; as a combat medic there was no such luck.

The man shouted more words at John that he didn’t understand, gesturing with his gun to move away from Victor’s now unconscious form. John obeyed, shuffling away on his knees. At this close of a range there was no chance of drawing his own gun before he’d have a bullet in his head. Before John could say anything more the gunman leveled his pistol on Victor, who was still barely breathing, and shot him twice in the chest. Victor’s eyes popped open again as he gasped, struggling for air, coughing and gurgling in the throes of death. Victor’s body finally fell limp again on the sand, blood drooling from his mouth. The man began yelling louder when John lurched as if to move towards Victor. He pushed the muzzle of the gun to John’s temple.

“I don’t know what you want!” John yelled back, sweat dripping off of him even as the sun dropped lower and the desert began cooling. The gun pressed harder to his temple and John began praying in his head, _Please God let me live!_

He did not have to pray long.

An enormous hissing roar erupted to his right. The gunman spun to face it, blocking John’s view of the massive creature. He didn’t have to wait to see it. Footsteps shook the ground around him as the monster continued to bellow and advance, casting a shadow over them. John hit the dirt as a massive tan head came sweeping down, jaws open, huge teeth aiming for the man with the gun. The gunman only had a split second to scream before the maw closed over him, his body rising and shaking until what parts remained outside the teeth became like a ragdoll and the gun dropped to the ground.

The dragon flung its head sharply, throwing the body from its teeth to thud somewhere in the sand beyond the bushes. John realized that he was still in the open, his med pack within reach and Victor’s body sprawled next to the bush tangled with his parachute. The dragon stared down at him, breaths hissing around its blood-stained fangs. John didn’t dare move. He didn’t have to, the creature roared at him and stepped forward again like a bull charging to scare off an intruder. John scrambled backwards, scooting on his hands and rear until the beast had backed him into a thorny bush with no way out but to stand and run. Then John saw the harness. The dragon was not feral; it had a saddle and harness around its torso and neck. The creature stopped over Victor. Like a cat protecting its kittens, it dropped and curled its massive form around the corpse, creating a wall of dusty brown scales.

 _Brown! Hyperion!_ John stared up at the huge dragon curled around his dead rider. Every move John made incited a low growl. Hyperion had golden yellow eyes that followed him constantly, and if he could scowl John was almost sure he would be. When John finally ceased moving Hyperion ducked his head down into the curl of his tail where Victor lay. Different sounds rumbled out of its huge chest, very sad-sounding noises that John had never heard something that large and powerful make before. Juddering noises like wavering moans were vibrating out of the side facing John. Hyperion had wounds, gaping crescents of sand crusted blood slashed across his shoulder below his wing. _That explains why he wasn’t in the air,_ John mused, watching as the giant creature seemed to actually be mourning for his rider.

John slowly started to reach for his pack; the moment twigs snapped under his weight Hyperion’s head snapped up, that golden gaze returning along with a deep growl. John decided to take the risk, heart pounding in his chest and adrenaline pumping as he continued to reach for the med kit. He shuffled across the sand, gravel and twigs to get it, all the while with the eyes of the beast upon him. The moment he grabbed the pack the dragon moved. His long body uncoiled from around his dead rider and thundered towards John, an explosive hiss startling John into scrambling for his life, attempting to get to his feet and at least attempt to outrun the angered creature.

The moment he got to his feet and began to break through the dried bushes running back towards his camp, a tremor shook the ground followed by more angry hissing and clipped painful screeches. Giant leathery wings were out and flailing, limbs scrambling and kicking up loads of debris as Hyperion attempted to right himself and only really managing to grind the wound into the dirt even more.

With an exhausted huff the dragon stopped, laying his head down as close to Victor’s body as he could. He heard a mournful sound echo out of the beast’s ribcage and his heart constricted.

John looked down at his kit and back up at Hyperion. His kit alone couldn’t repair the battle damage, but maybe if he could get him to camp where there were at least a couple riders who would know what to do; maybe there they could help him. So he decided to do something incredibly stupid, and moved towards Hyperion.

With his hands raised as though pacifying a gigantic horse, John shuffled forwards, pausing when the spike-crowned head rolled so Hyperion could watch him again. That yellow eye displayed intelligence; this creature was thinking or at least appeared to be, shifting minutely as John moved ever closer to his side. Hyperion made a very low grumble when John got close to touching the long, scaled neck, his hand open showing he meant him no harm. _What harm could I do really?_ John thought, reaching out he could feel the heat radiating off of Hyperion’s scales, a reminder of the fire that this creature could also cook him with should he choose. He chuckled hysterically at the thought, watching Hyperion’s head turn as he got closer.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” He said, then there was contact. His slightly calloused palm met smooth hot scales, and there was a hiss right in his ear. He looked and there were teeth, a slightly open mouth full of them, and a snout a little over half his height. Hyperion had shifted around; if he wanted to he could take John right there and chew him into a bloody pulp. John put his other hand up and placed it gently between the dragon’s nostrils.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Hyperion,” John said louder. Maybe the dragon knew what his own name was; John hoped that was the case. Hyperion snorted a surge of hot air so strong John felt like his helmet would be pushed right off his head. Then, Hyperion put his head down and closed his mouth. The growls stopped and the hissing threats ceased; all that was left were the hot breaths puffing over John’s body. John continued to stroke Hyperion’s neck.

“There you go. I’m sorry about your rider boy, but you’re going to be okay. I’ll take you to my friends and you can get better there, all right?” John was just rambling, a soothing tone for a creature he had no idea how to properly care for. He found a badge set into the leather of the harness that lay like latticework around Hyperion’s neck and chest. It carried the dragon’s name, rider’s name, and point of origin, Hyperion was an England-born dragon, bred from the Aerie near London and raised by rider Victor Trevor. The rest of the writing on the large plate-sized tag was a gibberish of words and numbers to John. The harness itself was torn in ways that made it almost useless, belts slashed and mangled, the saddle between Hyperion’s shoulders skewed to one side. Had Victor remained tethered on to the harness he would have had a time just staying on during flight.

John moved back a bit from the neck to survey the rest of Hyperion, now that the beast no longer seemed to want to snap him in half. When Victor had said Hyperion was brown John had assumed he was a big muddy-looking thing that would be at home in a peat bog. No, Hyperion was lighter than that, sandy-colored and blending into the landscape of the desert. The back of his head had a crown-like adornment of tan spikes; the only other ridges on him were a short row of blunt spines at the crest of his hindquarters going down his tail. Otherwise he was smooth with a long whip-like tail and dagger-like claws. He wore mottled stripes of darker browns across his back, and his belly was white, but his overall coloration was that of sand. And gold, there was gold flecked in his scales, a few pure gold clumps of them smattered throughout his body in small patches. John’s eye’s widened as he looked back towards the great head now turned sideways to stare at him. Gold never went to war; gold was given to royals, people of high status who would never go into battle, to be kept as pets or personal transport at best, even he knew that. Hyperion was not a pure gold dragon the likes a leader would ride, but those few scales meant something important.

“I’m getting you home,” John decided, walking up to the huge head and reaching up to stroke the large scaled cheek. There was a stuttering rumble of what seemed like appreciation and John felt something click, like a light was flicked on in his head. Warmth spread through him, a content feeling radiating at the back of his skull. There was also stinging pain and an absolutely crippling burst of sadness that made John jerk his hand back as if burned.

“What the hell?” John stared at his hand; no visible marks had appeared but all the nerves in that hand were tingling. He looked back at Hyperion only to see the dragon moving again, swinging his head up and away in an attempt to roll back onto his feet. John scrambled out of the way as the attempt succeeded and he was presented with an angry-looking injured shoulder. A tremor of joy passed across John’s head at the small success; the joy was not his own even though he was indeed happy that the creature was up again. Confused by the feelings suddenly bombarding him, John’s knees went weak and he collapsed to the dirt, staring up at Hyperion, who now blocked the sun.

“What is that?!” John cried, putting his hand to his forehead. Hyperion tilted his head looking down at him with a confused look, or as confused as a dragon’s face could look, he supposed.

“Is that you?!” He felt a tiny wave of the creature’s confusion before he got something that could only be described as positive in his mind, a good feeling of ‘yes you got that correct.’ John started giggling, looking up into the gold eye watching him. The dragon was ‘talking’ to him. _Holy fuck I can feel it!_ John couldn’t stop the giggling that was beginning to turn towards manic. This was not something he was prepared for, he had watched people die today, he’d patched up gory wounds, and seen things most people only saw in nightmares, but this, this was something he had no coping mechanism for, this creature was projecting things into his brain!

He didn’t even notice until a warm snout pushed at his torso, that he had laughed until tears had begun streaming down his face. A shot of concern pushed at him and he just laughed some more, grabbing the scales before him and holding on because there was nothing more to be done, and he needed something to ground him. The nose lifted him and he struggled back to his feet, still clinging and now scared of being dropped. The giggles subsided into tired panting as he clung to Hyperion. Now he really needed to get him back to a base because this needed explaining.

When John finally let go he wobbled a bit on his feet, feeling a little dizzy after the hysterics.

“Well, th-th-that’s good. I guess,” John stuttered out, eyes sweeping over the dragon again. He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the camp and back at Hyperion.

“We’re going to need to walk,” He said looking at the wing over the gash. Flight wasn’t an option. That injury would probably need to be patched before the wing would even begin to be usable again.

After a few failed attempts to stand, during which John found a new injury on Hyperion’s flank, both man and dragon were on their feet, shaky but upright.

“Okay, okay, now, slowly follow me,” John took a couple of steps in the direction he wanted the dragon to go. Hyperion stayed still, glancing back behind him at Victor’s body. John caught another shock of sorrow and concern from Hyperion. 

“You don’t want to leave him do you?” A snort and nod indicated a yes, even without the almost overwhelming feeling of loss and wanting pushed into his head. _Christ that’s going to take some getting used to._ He thought, pressing a palm to his temple momentarily.

John walked to the body and pulled in the parachute still billowing in the dying sunlight. He wrapped Victor’s corpse in the fabric and used the cords to drag him behind as he walked. John only made it a few steps like that before he felt his burden lessen and turned to see Hyperion as delicately as he’d ever seen, pick up the bundle with his mouth and gently lay it across his own shoulders. _One last ‘ride’ for Victor then,_ John thought sadly, watching the gentleness of a creature he had never seen in any circumstance beyond being used in war or as pack beasts. He secured the body, Hyperion watching intently the whole time. 

“All right, now come on,” He coughed, breaking the quiet moment. They needed to move on if they wanted to make it over to the camp before the sun was completely down. A distant boom like thunder caught John’s attention; looking towards the village in the distance he noticed smoke billowing up from the wrecked buildings.

“Shit!” He cursed, looking up at Hyperion and back at what was now a skirmish where his camp had been. He took off running towards the smoke. He needed to help his men. He hoped some survived to help. He felt Hyperion trying to follow after him, left behind as John crossed the distance to the remains of the camp. 

It was a bloodbath; the men who had been on watch had died at their posts, and he saw more of the dead beyond. John heard retaliating gunfire signaling that there were at least a few still alive. He didn’t have much time to think on that though as one enemy soldier rounded the corner, saw John, and shouted an alarm. John ducked behind the doorway where he’d been standing just in time to avoid a spray of bullets. He saw Hyperion stumbling towards him and then, like a tank, the dragon rammed into the crumbling wall. Men screamed as bricks and rubble from the dilapidated building rained down on them. He heard another explosion nearby, the higher-pitched screams of a drake as well as human shouting. He watched as Hyperion scraped his side against the building, using it as a brace as he regained shaky footing. This was no place for a grounded dragon. He would be killed. John couldn’t leave his men, no matter how few survived, he needed to help them.

The choice was taken out of his hands when a truckload of enemy soldiers veered around the corner and unloaded at least twenty more fully armed men. _We’re going to die here._ John thought as he watched a burly giant of a man with an RPG slung over his shoulder jump out last. Hyperion seemed to recognize the weapon on the man’s shoulder: a dragon killer. This guy had enough big ammo and weapons to have probably taken the drakes that had been protecting the camp. The fact that he was here now spoke volumes for the status of the rest of John’s men, dead and dying, all of them. The massive dragon behind John was no small drake, but an RPG could do enough damage to bring about a fairly slow painful death with one blow.

John looked up at Hyperion, feeling fear for the first time radiating from the dragon in strong enough waves to know it was not fear for himself, but fear for John, intermingled with the fierce urge to protect. The soldiers had them pinned up against the wall, firing range style; any move to run and John would have been gunned down instantly.

Hyperion let out a great bellowing roar at them, bowing his neck over John and setting him between his forelegs, attempting to create some sort of block for the vulnerable human on the ground. The gunmen took small steps back at the force of the noise, a couple covering their ears as it tapered off with a shrill screech. The man carrying the RPG seemed unaffected, he simply slung the weapon on to his shoulder and prepared to fire at Hyperion’s head.

Time seemed to slow; he could feel his heart thumping away as adrenalin rushed into his bloodstream and all he could really do was pray for a miracle. He clung to the thick scales of Hyperion’s foreleg and braced himself for the impact.

Instead there was a sudden rush of wind, Sand and bits of gravel were flung into the air. A different shrill cry pierced the night air, far higher-pitched than Hyperion’s great bellows. Another dragon had come, maybe more, _a backup unit from nearby maybe,_ John hoped.

In the confusion of the impromptu sandstorm the gunmen began to fire. Random shots pinged into the sky, into Hyperion’s scales, into the haze of dust that was beginning to settle after the initial surprise. In the dim light left from sunset and the light of the truck’s headlights, John saw small flashes of red scales sweeping past as a lone dragon began berating the hostiles and drawing their fire away from the injured Hyperion.

As John stared up in wonder at the dark shape spinning above them, sharp pain suddenly lanced through his shoulder. He went down to his knees clutching at the injury; his hand came away red. The pain took his breath away, and he caught a lungful of sand when he tried to inhale for a scream. He collapsed the rest of the way into the dirt, grinding his head into it as the world sped up again and he lay there hacking and screaming in agony. Hyperion let out a piercing scream and John’s ears rang so much he almost didn’t realize he was being lifted off the ground. His face was pressed against soft scales as Hyperion’s large fist closed around him. Gales of wind whipped around him, and there were a couple thundering jolts that made the pain flare in a whole new way from his shoulder. Then there was a brief moment of weightlessness, a moment akin to the diving feeling on the first drop of a roller coaster. Then another massive jolt and crash, and sand was everywhere blocking John’s already tear blurred vision. His world was a swirl of sand and blackness and sounds. 

He heard an explosion; an orange glow briefly appeared and the world flipped again, a loud screech reverberating in his ear and nearly deafening him. Another gale and another moment of weightlessness, all the while he was clutched in an immobilizing grip against warm scales. There was another surge of forward motion and another, up and down, up and down; wing beats, John realized hazily. He opened his eyes and wished he hadn’t, the lurching motion of flight coupled with the pain only made the sight of burning ruins speeding past more nauseating. A large red blur rose below them, and John had barely the presence of mind to realize that was the other dragon.

“FOLLOW ME!!! FOLLOW ME YOU GREAT BRUTE!!” John heard a female voice screaming above the wind, the red shape coming closer. Hyperion gave a massive lurch downward and only the red dragon’s back pushing upward right next to him against Hyperion’s chest kept them from falling out of the sky.

“Stay awake boy!” the woman’s voice shouted at him much closer now; she was out of her saddle hanging off of her dragon’s harness as it helped Hyperion stay up in the air.

John really did want to obey that order, but the combination of lurching wing beats, swirling colors, height, as well as shock setting in, was too much for him and he felt his stomach heave and he vomited before the world went black.


	2. I'm coming home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much nautilicious for being my beta.

The world swam back to John in a haze of pain and shouting. He was surrounded by yelling people, people putting hands on his face, people shouting garbled words in his ears, people prying at the huge scaled talons that encased him. Too much noise and too much pain and bright lights from torches being pointed in his face; John groaned, squinting into the lights, trying to make out faces around him.

“John! John Watson! Can you hear me?!” someone was yelling at him. The ringing in John’s ears was beginning to fade, but the voice was still a bit garbled. He groaned again, feeling a hand cradle the back of his head as the paw encasing him began to give way and loosen.

“Hyp…” John hacked, dazed and confused; when had the dragon landed, was he okay? John couldn’t feel him in his head, and that scared him.

“Doctor! Someone get a doctor over here, now!” He was being lifted out of the talons, the pain in his shoulder flaring again as he was moved. As he was placed on what felt like a stretcher he passed out again, the world blurring out and blackening.

When John awoke again the world felt fuzzy, no pain, no bright lights, just softness and the very quiet murmur of voices nearby. He blinked, trying to shift; his head felt full of fluff and his eyelids felt glued together. He opened his mouth to try to speak, to call for someone, but his throat was dry and all that came out were a few light parched coughs. He ached more the further he rose out of slumber. The muffled voices had stopped. There was a very dim warm-colored glow everywhere he could see, until suddenly the curtain rattled out of the way to reveal a brief, blinding, flash of light before being pushed back into place by a visitor. A light was turned on low nearby, illuminating a person wearing camouflage colored clothes and a red plus sign on their arm. _A red cross,_ John’s brain hazily supplied. He tried to focus more on a face, but in the dim lighting he still struggled to make much out. He opened his mouth again only to emit a few more dry coughs that made the aching pain beginning to radiate across his chest worse.

“John Watson, Dr John Watson, can you hear me?” A woman’s voice calmly asked. “Nod for a yes,” she prompted, leaning in over him. John gingerly nodded up and down for her.

“I am Dr Helen Hunter I performed your surgery. I’m going to give you some water now, sip slowly for me,” she said holding up a small cup and pressing a straw to his lips. He did as he was told happily, relishing the cool liquid running down his throat. She eventually pulled away, and he sighed a nice clean breath of air.

“Where?” John croaked out, staring up at Helen.

“You are in the Kandahar Aerie hospital. You were shot in the shoulder,” she told him, shading his eyes with a hand as she turned the light up a bit more. John blinked when she pulled her hand away, his vision coming more into focus. She moved down to the foot of the bed to read his chart. John cast a quick glance around. His left shoulder was heavily bandaged to the point he almost had a pad to rest his cheek on and that arm was in a sling strapped close to his body. There was an IV in his other arm and various cables to monitoring equipment strung all over his bare chest.

“An Aerie?” John said, staring back at the ceiling.

“Yes, a dragon crashed in the landing court with you in his paw; you were bleeding pretty badly, going into shock, it was a miracle you survived the flight really.” Helen told him, marking a couple things on his chart with a pen and then putting it down to come around to the side of the bed with the IV.

“Crashed… He crashed?” John suddenly realized what she said and it kicked his brain into high gear again; a dragon crashing was never a good thing. In John’s experience, the words ‘crash’ and ‘dragon’ usually combined to make the end result of a large scaly corpse. He tried to sit up but a searing sensation from his left shoulder made him fall back to the pillows, gasping. Dr Hunter was there for him in a flash, as he lay panting and grunting through the sudden pain.

“John. John, look at me, look, breathe, in and out, in aaand out, slow.” She was close and personal about this; she had her hand under his head, cradling his skull back against the pillow and putting her face right in his line of sight, making the breathing motions with him.

“He-he crashed! You said. He crashed.” John panted out, trying to breathe with her, but the panicky feeling constricting his throat didn’t want to go away. The warm feeling he’d felt from Hyperion’s mind was not there anymore and it worried him.

“Shhhh, breathe John, breathe steady for me. The dragon is fine, he is in the Aerie being tended to; exhausted, injured, but fine,” she told him calmly. Hearing that Hyperion was alive certainly helped calm the panic, and he started to breathe easy again, relaxing into her hand. She gently tugged her hand free, and shifted to lean against the bed with her hip. She went back to fiddling with his IV.

“I can’t feel him,” John mumbled. He’d only been connected to the creature for a short amount of time, but it didn’t feel right when it was gone, like there was something missing in his brain.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Hyperion, I could feel him before…” John started slowly, “I know it sounds crazy, but I felt something after I touched him,” He didn’t know how to articulate what it was in a way that he didn’t think would land him in a psych ward, and so he shut up as he watched the lady’s eyes widen.

“A warmth, did you feel warm all over? Like, hot soup in winter only more intense?” she asked, quickly moving around the bed again. She looked at his charts, flipping through the papers. John hadn’t thought about it like that, but once she’d mentioned it it was a similar feeling though far more intense. This wasn’t just warmth after a cold snowy day out, this went deeper and settled in his mind. It wasn’t a fleeting sensation; it felt like it had always been there, and John only realized how good it felt now that he missed it.

“Yeah, a lot more intense.” John felt thankful that she wasn’t having him committed. The fact that she had known what he was feeling implied that she definitely knew more about what was going on and that was a welcome comfort. If it was something that needed fixing maybe she knew how to fix it.

“You know what that is?” He asked hazily. His head was starting to feel foggy and full of cotton fluff again. _What did she give me?_ She was moving towards the curtain around his bed and stuck her head out; she spoke to someone on the other side, but John couldn’t hear what was being said. When she came back, her calm mask was back as well.

“What is wrong with me?” He mumbled up at her.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, just a busted up shoulder and some scrapes and bruises.” She calmly patted his blanket-covered leg.

“You know what this thing he did to me is.” It wasn’t a question, just a sort of slurred statement as his eyelids began to feel heavier.

“I do, but we don’t need to discuss it now. Right now you need to rest and recover. The flight here banged you up pretty bad; I just gave you a mild sedative to help you sleep.” She picked up his hand and showed him where the button for a painkiller was right next to his bed in easy reach. “What is going on in your head is not harmful. When you next wake up we can talk about it all you like if you feel up to it.” Helen smiled at him reassuringly. Already tired, and with the sedative pushing him the rest of the way towards sleep, John faded fast. He closed his eyes, and gave his doctor a weak ‘uh-huh’ as he drifted off back into the dreamless dark of sleep.

John woke to a gentle hand on his good shoulder and a voice quietly calling his name. He cracked his eyes open to see the kind face of a nurse.

“I’m sorry, dear, but I need you to eat and drink and take some medicine for me,” she said, indicating a tray she had set on the table at the foot of his bed.

It was much brighter in the room; the curtains previously drawn around his bed had been pulled back so now he could see the rest of the ward. It was just John and a couple other patients in at the moment, the others bandaged six ways to Sunday, with limbs in casts, covered in wires and monitoring equipment similar to what was strewn across his chest. He gave the nurse a small smile and she hit the button to raise the head of the bed and help him sit up.

“Thank you,” John croaked. She helped him eat his food, drink some water and then waited patiently for him throw back the couple of pills she’d brought him.

“When can I talk to Dr Hunter?” He asked as she was picking up the tray to leave.

“Oh, I can go check and see if she’s in if you’d like.”

John nodded, giving her a ‘yes please,’ and she left. It was not long before a somewhat familiar face came striding down the hall.

“Hello John. I heard you were looking for me,” Helen said. He could see her better now; she had a lovely face with a dark complexion and long black hair streaked with grey done back in a ponytail, and she was smiling at him.

“Just want an explanation,” John said tiredly, bringing his hand up to lightly tap against his temple. 

“Ah,” she replied, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“I miss it, whatever it is,” John told her. It was true, whatever that connection had been, now that it was gone it felt like a craving; he wanted it back, needed it back, even though he didn’t know what it was he was even craving.

“It is a bond,” She paused, perhaps to see how he’d react to the information. When he gave her only a blank stare, she continued. “Dragons form bonds with their riders. These bonds create a mental link between rider and mount, which allows for communication. The communication manifests more like emotional transference. The dragon feels upset, angry, joyous, or anything, it can share this with its rider.” John was still listening quietly, but this time he had something to say.

“Why’s it gone?” he asked. He felt content with what she’d told him so far. It was a comfort to know that what was going on in his head was a normal thing that came with dealing with a dragon. The concept was still a little strange, but as good as the bond made him feel he was sure he could get used to it quickly enough. At the back of his brain the thought of ‘get the connection back now!’ was skittering around scratching away. Helen just smiled at him.

“Just distance dear, you’ll get it back once you are in range of him again.” She patted his hand and gave him a knowing look like this was something she had seen many times before.

“Is the bond permanent?” John asked next. The part of him desperate to reunite with Hyperion vowed that once he got it back he’d never lose it again.

“Yes.” He noted a very faint grim note to that yes, as if this being a permanent thing could be anything but good. His eyebrows scrunched.

“Permanent. Once a dragon bonds to a rider their bond with that dragon will last as long as the rider lives. The only way that bond will break is if the dragon dies before you do. As you have experienced firsthand, if the rider dies first the dragon can re-bond with another person. You are an incredibly special case truth be told, usually re-bondings only happen at the Aeries when the riders die of old age or sickness. Field bonding is almost unheard of,” she said, still sounding like that might be bad in some way. 

“Is there something wrong with that?” John asked, frowning.

“No, no, nothing wrong with that, but most dragon riders start young. They are raised and taught about the bond and they have time to acclimatize to the lifestyle that surrounds living in an Aerie. I do worry about your… ability to adapt,” she said, taking his hand in hers and rubbing soothing circles on the back of it. “I do not know what you may have been like before now: if you had plans for a family, if you thought of retiring to a house in the country when you grew old; the things people usually plan for their future. The life of a dragon rider may be much different to what you were planning.” John had never given it much thought. He had no plans for family or retirement or a quiet life in the country. At best, after the war was said and done, if he survived the war, he had planned on returning to the bustle of London, back to practicing in a clinic somewhere. Beyond that, life was a mystery for him, for which he was always ready and willing to change.

“I think I can manage,” John told her, quirking a small but reassuring smile. “When can I see him?” He asked. He had one goal: get up and moving and out of this hospital.

Helen grinned at him. “Heal first, John. You’ve got to let that shoulder recover, then we can get you out and about.” When John looked disappointed by that answer she amended, “Let’s see where you are in a week, and then I’ll see if I can arrange something.” On that note she rose from the bed and moved over to check some of the equipment surrounding John.

“What about Victor?” John suddenly remembered the corpse that had been strapped to Hyperion’s back.

“Victor?”

“The dead rider. Hyperion was carrying him.”

“Oh, his body was taken to the morgue. It will be sent home and given a proper burial.” Helen said. John felt relieved at that news. The poor man deserved a burial.

“Good, that’s good,” John replied, shifting a bit and trying to get a little more comfortable, or at least as comfortable as one could get with a bullet wound, bandages, and sling. He still felt a bit drowsy, and with the recovery time ahead of him he simply let himself doze as the daily bustle of the hospital ward continued around him.

The following week passed incredibly slowly for John. Nurses came and went, checking on him, bringing him food and water, changing bandages, and helping bathe him. The patients transferred in and out around him, victims of war in varying states of injury, from burns to breaks to amputees and worse; they rotated out of the beds around him. 

He spent a lot of the time sleeping, more than he had since he joined the military. During the week, though, John found his sleep being disturbed by nightmares. Nothing major that left him screaming like patients he had heard down the hall, but still they mostly involved falling and he’d wake up the moment he hit the ground with a gasp, sweating bullets, his heart pounding in his chest. He would lay back and breathe slowly trying to bring his thundering heart rate down, staring at the ceiling. John hadn’t had many nightmares before and not since he’d been shipped out; he had a sneaking suspicion it had to do with Hyperion being missing from his mind. _Perhaps when I get closer to him again they’ll stop_ John thought hopefully as he tried to go back to sleep.

By the end of the week John was particularly restless, wanting to get up and move around out of his bed. A nurse was the first to come to his aid; she began unhooking him from anything still attached, mostly just fluids by that point. By the time he had got his legs swung over the side of the bed there was another nurse there big enough to catch him if he fell. Once John was on his feet he teetered, the other nurse had his arm in moments steadying him as he regained his balance. He shuffled around a bit, just short steps at first after a week of not using his legs, before he started taking proper steps and got walking around again.

The bandages covering John’s shoulder in the first days of his hospitalization had been reduced from a hulking pad to a few pads of gauze taped over the bullet wound. John knew he would have scars, a larger one on his back from the bullet’s exit point. He’d seen when the nurses changed the bandages. There was purple bruising around the area extending beyond the smaller covering. Otherwise that arm stayed immobilized in a sling. John knew he would be seeing a physical therapist in his future. He also knew he would be sent home: no use having a shaky, one-handed medic in the field. Even if he didn’t have a newly bonded dragon in tow they would have sent him home; the dragon only expedited the orders.

By the time John was walking on his own around the ward, Dr Hunter had appeared.

“Up and about, John?” She asked, her usual smile in place.

“Of course,” he replied shifting on his feet in front of her, “I can go out into the Aerie now, right?” He felt ready to leave the constricting ward.

“Well, you look like you should be fine to go for a short visit,” she said. “Just take it slow. You can go out for a visit, just a visit, and then you come back here. You are still recovering even if you feel in good condition,” Helen told him sternly. “I’ll have one of the hospital staff escort you.” With that John gained his freedom for the day. The nurses helped him put on a set of spare fatigues and boots. When the nurse offered him clothes he chose to go shirtless under a large camouflage jacket rather than hassle with getting a shirt over his immobilized arm. He had been out in the Afghan sun shirtless plenty of times; not many better ways to beat the heat when there wasn’t any shade or A/C around. 

John had been then bundled into a small jeep and sped off into the Aerie, down massive halls with ceilings open to the sky and floors worn smooth by centuries of use. The Aerie was a massive ancient stone complex. As they passed, John stared, mouth agape, at huge arched doorways with worn wooden doors and painted dragons, in awe of the sheer enormity of the structures. John had never been near an Aerie, let alone inside one. The closest he had ever come were the landings for the dragons who had transported him to the war, and those had been a completely separate place away from an Aerie altogether.

His driver chuckled at the stunned expression on John’s face, “You’ve never been to an Aerie before have you?” he asked, grinning.

John replied with a still slightly dazed ‘no’ as the jeep continued on through the canyon of a hall. As they traveled through the Aerie John had begun to feel tiny sparks of something in his mind, like someone was flicking a lighter to start a fire, but he didn’t dare get his hopes up yet; it could have just been wishful thinking making his mind play tricks on itself.

Everything opened up to the air, with no ceiling above them. Once they reached what appeared to be the center of the Aerie it opened into a massive open-air courtyard, big enough to accommodate many dragons it all at once. The jeep stopped and the escort hopped out and helped John out as well. The place was by no means deserted: there were various workers around, people carrying things here and there, working on bits of harnesses and equipment around the edges of the field. There were at least a few dragons spread out across the space being harnessed up or down by small teams of people.

A bear of a man greeted them with a smile. “Hello! Welcome to Kandahar Aerie. I am Master Omar. What brings you boys down to the airfield today?” He asked, towering over John by well over a foot.

“This is Dr John Watson, sir, we’re here looking for his dragon.” John’s escort replied for him. “What was his name, Dr Watson?”

John was too busy looking around at the life of an Aerie going by. It looked like a busy, adrenaline-fueled sort of place, and he was dying to become part of it. in the distance, he watched a large olive green dragon land and become swarmed by a crew of people removing its harness. A cleared throat brought his attention back.

“Oh! Er, Hyperion, his name is Hyperion, sir,” John responded straightening up under Omar’s questioning raised eyebrow.

“Aaah, you’re the one that got carried in. Good to see you up and about. Follow me,” he said turning and walking off, obviously expecting the pair of them to follow his massive strides.

That feeling of sparks in his head grew within John as they walked; it was becoming less like sparks and more like smouldering flame. Hyperion couldn’t be too far away. John’s pace increased to keep up with the burly man ahead. The closer he stayed to this man the sooner he got to see his dragon.

John was beginning to feel tired again as he tried to keep his pace up in the hot midday sun. He started panting and sweating just in the distance they walked down a long hall off the main court. There were large doorways on either side of them, and Omar pushed open a smaller door set into a large one towards the end of the hall, gesturing for peaky feeling John to enter before him. The flame in his head was roaring now.

When John stepped through the door he was instantly greeted by a rather loud angry hiss. John cast his gaze around the room. It was a huge oval shaped space with a large tarp stretched over the top to make a ceiling, otherwise it was bare save for a large round structure in the center that looked like an in ground swimming pool filled with sand, and a very large and unhappy-sounding tan dragon.

“Hyperion?” John shuffled forward. It felt cooler under the tarp and for that John was thankful. He’d been expecting Hyperion to be happy to see him, but what hazy flickers he was getting from the bond signaled a sense of betrayal and irritation.

“Careful Watson, he’s been a bit on the touchy side this week without you, take it slow reintroducing yourself to him.” Omar told him, staying back at the doorway while he nudged John forwards. 

As he came closer Hyperion drew upwards, raising his head up as far away as he could get it while remaining seated on the sand. John saw a massive patch of bandaging taped over Hyperion’s shoulder and hip, over where the two largest wounds John remembered seeing on him had been. Hyperion continued to let out a low rattling hiss as he looked down his muzzle at John.

“Hyperion, it’s okay, I’m here, remember me?” He continued to move forward until his toes hit the edge of the sand, the growl from above deepened as John prodded it with the toe of his boot. John looked back at the door. His escort and Omar both stood just inside the doorway, watching him. John had no idea if what he was doing was right or not. For all he knew dragons were super territorial of their sand pits and he was crossing a line even riders shouldn’t cross.

John’s mind flared, the warmth he’d been missing slowly seeping into him.

John stepped forward onto the sand. It was soft and had give to it like the sand at a beach; his boots sunk into it a little. Hyperion’s head was down and in his face in a matter of moments, growling low enough John could feel it in his chest. He flinched at the sudden movement, readying to duck the massive beast’s head. Hyperion didn’t bite him or hit him, but he came very close, intimidating. John reached up his good hand and tentatively laid it on the huffing hot dragon’s nose.

The warmth he’d been craving for the last week finally returned full force and it shook him to his toes. Hyperion let out a strong puff of air, blowing the coat off John’s shoulders, and John couldn’t help but grin. The power of that feeling surging all at once into him made his knees weak, much like it had done the first time. With his good arm he tried to grab the dragon’s nose to keep from falling. His grip slid off the great snout and he went down to the sand panting and giggling. His heart felt like it would burst with the overwhelming feeling of glee that flooded over him. Unlike before, where it had been tears born of sadness, his eyes started to water with tears of joy as Hyperion grunted and used his nose to gently push John back into the soft sand. He nosed at John’s belly with care, blowing hot air that smelled faintly like a strange combination of raw and cooked meat over him as John’s giggling died down to labored panting. Hyperion settled his cheek right next to him, that huge golden eye surveying him as he curved his neck around John, chin leaving a ditch in the sand around him. 

“God I missed you,” he chuckled up at the giant sandy head craned over him. After the initial rush had passed he could feel a small dart of concern running across his mind from Hyperion as the dragon came to his side and tried to push his nose under John’s bad shoulder and sling. John groaned at the motion, batting weakly at the beast’s nose.

“No, no, don’t. I’m okay Hyperion,” he said, as the nose pushed him a bit across the sand. Feelings of happiness at his statement fluttered across the bond as the dragon rose to sit back on his haunches, freeing the use of his forearms. John attempted to sit up and return to his feet but found himself stuck like an overturned turtle as his good hand slipped out from under him in the sand. A large talon reached out and carefully scooped John up. The paw, shaped similarly to a hand, let the sand run away and left John lying in its soft-scaled grip. John settled back onto his feet, the giant paw a wall behind him to lean on as he gained his balance.

“Didn’t know dragon’s could be so gentle,” John murmured, looking up at the huge creature before him. He’d never seen one of the massive scaly creatures doing anything other than be absolutely vicious and violent on the battlefield, or as pack beasts carrying anything from groups of people to shipping cargo. Hyperion could so easily hurt John by accident, yet he remained careful of his teeth and claws, almost delicate in his treatment of John. Victor was right: smart as a whip did fit this dragon, at least.

Hyperion pulled John closer, resuming what must have been his original position of lying on his side. He noticed that the dragon had hollowed himself out a sort of a pit to lie in. John found himself pressed against the white scales of Hyperion’s chest in a very strange form of a hug, as the dragon laid his head and neck down in the sand, forming a wall around him. In the quiet moment John could hear the beating heart below the scales, as big as John or maybe even bigger; it let out a constant vibrating thud in his ear alongside the whoosh of breathing lungs. He was warm, really warm along his belly and John let himself sink into that. He turned and pressed his bare back to it, sliding down to sit against Hyperion’s side. As they both rested John received a light susurrus of feelings and emotions skittering across his mind, like Hyperion was whispering to him how much he had missed him, how worried he’d been that his new rider was taken from him so soon, how angry he had been at the people who had taken him, and how miserable he had felt over the days he’d been gone.

John patted the great dragon’s side. “Well I’m here now, and we’re going to be heading home soon, you and me,” John said lazily, just sort of dozing against the comfortable warmth. He didn’t mind much that he was now sweaty and covered in sand; it just felt extremely right to stay right where he was, in contact with his dragon. _My dragon,_ he thought, huffing out a small laugh. He’d never imagined joining an Aerie, his dreams had been far lower than that, more normal and down to earth, like his parents and sister.

Hyperion let out a noise that could only be described as laughter. His side bounced against John’s back as the mouth, settled on the sand before him, opened and small rapid puffs of hot air hissed forth along with a guttural little ‘huh-huh-huh’ sort of sound. The huge dragon was laughing at him, projecting even stronger waves of happiness to him. A long black forked tongue flicked from that open mouth as the laughter receded. John had just enough time to realize it was black before the massive forked appendage licked him, the forks splitting into the sand on either side of him and the body of the tongue sweeping up his entire torso. John felt thankful that dragons did not seem to drool, or at least this one didn’t, because that tongue felt so much hotter to the touch than the exterior scales: any liquid in that mouth would have been near scalding. John laughed at the playful gesture.

The pair sat like that for what felt like hours, in comfortable sleepy silence, both still recovering from their injuries and resting in each other’s company. It was only when John began to notice the bits of sky he could see around the ceiling changing color that he realized how long he’d sat there. The young man who had escorted him out was calling for him.

“Dr Watson! Dr Watson, it’s time to leave!” He sounded fairly far off. John hummed; he didn’t want to leave, He would have been perfectly happy to sleep there all grubby with sweat. Hyperion, however, heard the word ‘leave’ and his head darted up sharply, turning in the direction of the voice and removing the wall that was his neck.

“D-Doctor Watson, we really should be going now,” the man stuttered intimidated under the piercing golden gaze fixed on him. A low growl began to rumble from the chest behind John, and a tiny flare of anger passed through his mind.

“Corporal, if you are anywhere near this dragon’s sand, move away immediately,” John warned, blinking and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He knew he had to leave, much as he didn’t want to. He’d be back as soon as he could. John pushed himself up onto his feet using Hyperion’s side for leverage, definitely feeling the ache in his shoulder again. As he moved, Hyperion’s head came down again next to him, trying to subtly block him with his snout and redirect him back to his side.

“Hyperion, I really do need to go,” John told him, pushing at the scaly cheek. A flash of hurt and concern. “I’ll be back, I promise, I’ll come and visit every day for as long as I can,” John said, looking up into the huge eye next to him.

“Nothing can keep me from you now,” he told him, as a fainter wave of concern and fear washed over the back of his mind. Hyperion’s head followed him as far as his neck could stretch across the sand when John walked away, his nose barely bumping John’s back as he hit his limit. He turned at the touch and Hyperion let out a pitiful moan at John.

“Shh, I’m going to be fine. I swear I’ll come back,” John said again, reaching out and stroking the upset dragon’s nose until the moaning stopped and Hyperion, finally understanding that John couldn’t stay with him, began to retreat, curling his neck around himself along with his tail and looking dejected.

John walked towards the door trying not to look back; if he did he’d never want to leave again. His escort stood near the door waiting for him. Omar was just outside, waiting to accompany them back to the courtyard. John felt worse and worse about leaving the farther he got from the enclosure. The bond felt stronger this time, he could still feel Hyperion, but the dragon was radiating unhappiness and that only made John feel awful. He dragged his feet, following his escorts at a slight distance, feeling more of a pull to go back.

Omar seemed to notice and slowed a bit to fall back next to John, “He’ll be okay with us, you know, we’ve been taking good care of him,” he told him, trying to sound reassuring as he clapped John on the back.

“I don’t want to leave him alone,” John admitted quietly.

“Ah, I understand. You know, usually when our dragons hatch and bond their riders don’t leave their sides for a few days, sleep right on the sand with them and everything,” he explained. “It strengthens the bond in those first days. That urge will wear off the more you’re around each other. Eventually that bond will hold for longer distances and you’ll feel right as rain.” That thought didn’t help much; it only made John even more aware of the fact that he was breaking tradition and not having that bonding time with his dragon.

“Am I hurting him by not doing that?” John asked, looking up at Omar. It felt like he was hurting Hyperion by walking away.

“He’s just a bit upset is all; you’re delaying the bonding time and that doesn’t usually happen so he might be a little confused and gloomy about it, but just keep to your promise and come back and he’ll be happy as a clam again.” John could tell that Omar was definitely trying to make John feel better again, but that wasn’t really helping; if anything it made him feel slightly worse. “Besides, you’ll have your chance to sit and bond with him all you like over the next few days and during your flight home.” He grinned at John.

“But Hyperion can’t fly…”

“No, no, no, Hyperion’s not going to be flying again for a while now. No, he’s going to be flown home with you,” he said, laughing a little at John’s mistake. “We have a couple of cargo carriers preparing to leave who can take on Hyperion’s weight,”

It was in that moment that it clicked and John realized that he was going to have to fly, up in the air, high above the ground. John’s brain went into overdrive. He honestly hadn’t thought about the reality that his life now involved a lot more flying than it had before. John could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d been unwillingly flung skyward by dragon wings. One had brought him to Afghanistan; otherwise he had been grounded since he arrived, running and riding with ground troops and caravans, and never once thinking or wanting to leave the ground.  
In his obsession to get the mental connection back with Hyperion he’d neglected to think about the extreme heights he would be taken to, and the perilous maneuvers he’d seen battling dragons perform, and the beating wings, and the up and down motion, and the dizziness, and the noise. _Oh fuck I’m going to have to fly!_ John’s brain thought in a mild panic while his feet stopped carrying him forward.

John had seen the carriers Omar had mentioned, had been flown to this god-forsaken place along with a load of other people one. Cargo carriers were like the draft horses of the dragons, the biggest ones John had ever seen. They grew to be bigger than multistory buildings and had whole crews on their backs, not just a single rider, though now that John knew what he knew about riders there must be one person on those crews that solely belonged to that dragon. The thought of that was both impressive and intimidating at the same time. 

“I can’t fly, I can’t fly!” John became aware he was repeating over and over as his fingers gripped into the bigger man’s sweat-stained shirt. Before he knew what had happened Omar was lowering him with his back against the wall slowly. He was breathing hard and the corporal escorting him told him to breathe slower and calm down before he hyperventilated. John’s chest continued to constrict tighter around every breath, falling into a familiar stranglehold of panic he hadn’t felt since before leaving for the war. The matter was taken out of the corporal’s hands as Omar captured John’s head between his large hands and made him look into his dark eyes.

“Son! You are going to be fine. You don’t have to fly right now! That is for later times. Now breathe!” He shouted in John’s face, commanding John to breathe in as he did the same, sucking in a large breath through his nose. John almost choked as he finally sucked in a large gulp of air, coughing and hacking roughly as he let the breath out, but gulping in another breath and repeating. He had experienced panic attacks before, not quite as acute as this one had been, but still, that feeling of drowning, of terror so great his body forgot how to breathe and simply crumpled, that was not something he remotely enjoyed feeling. He felt his face heat slightly in shame at reacting like he had in front of an Aerie Master. Once he started coming back to a normal breathing rate Omar let go of his face and patted him on the cheek.

“There now, no use getting all worked up over it. You aren’t going to be flying by yourself anytime soon; you’ll be in a nice padded crate with your dragon. You can sleep the whole flight if you want, no worries.” He helped John up off the ground, taking hold of his good hand.

“I see people like you all the time, afraid of flying, just take it one step at a time and remember to breathe, you’ll be fine.” He clapped him on the back and started walking with him again, the hospital’s escort following close behind.

John felt a little light-headed and drained. Once he got walking again he realized that there had been other people around attending to dragons in their pens who had stopped to see what was going on. He briefly thought about apologizing for the scene he’d created; of all the things to be phobic of, flying was one of the more ridiculous ones. Thankfully Omar spoke first.

“No need to apologize, Dr Watson, We’ve seen all sorts of reactions to dragons and to flying here: the fainters, the screamers, the shaky and uncertain, we just handle each one as they come. They’ve got to fly to get to where they’re going eventually.” He said light-heartedly. That did make John feel a bit better.

They slowly made their way back to the courtyard and the jeep they’d arrived in. John said his slightly shaky goodbyes to Omar and with an ever-growing feeling like he was abandoning Hyperion, got into the jeep and was driven back to the hospital as the sun sank below the horizon.

The few days that followed were rough for John. He did keep his promise to Hyperion and visited him for as long as he could every day. It made him feel better when he was in contact with the dragon, but it felt like his heart was being ripped out when he had to leave. With his shoulder, John wasn’t able to stay out all night with Hyperion, but the contact he got did seem to be helping; on the last couple of nights he swore he could faintly feel Hyperion still in his mind all the way out at the hospital.

John’s duffel bag from the field station he’d been assigned to came in the day before he was scheduled to fly. He rummaged through his jumbled meager possessions, rearranging and repacking, until he stumbled across a couple pictures of him and the boys in the unit he’d been working with, his unit. John’s heart clenched as he looked at them and realized all of the other men were probably dead. He’d spent months patching up his men and others out in the field. _How many of them are dead?_ John thought, biting his lip as he felt his eyes start to burn with tears. He wasn’t going to cry; he wasn’t, after the shit of the last week, to cry over a tiny picture while sitting on his nice, clean, hospital bed at that moment just didn’t seem right. The time for tears should have been over a week before, when he had been told that the conflict he’d been carried away from had been a complete slaughter. John put the picture back into the bag and continued to stuff his things in on top of it much quicker than he meant to, biting his lip as his eyebrows furrowed, his nose began to run, and a lump formed in his throat, his body preparing to cry even as he tried willing it not to. In the end John shoved the duffel to the end of the bed, clumsily packed, while the unwelcome tears started to run down his face. He clenched his fist against his fatigues sniffing hard in a last attempt to stop the tears.

“Fuck!” he barked out shakily, finally freeing his hand from his leg to wipe the tears and snot from his face. His exclamation pulled the attention of a nearby nurse who slowly came up to him and gently laid a hand on his arm.

“Is there anything I can do?” She asked softly. John shook his head, his vocal cords refusing to work for him as his face crumpled and he sniffled more. She grabbed a box of tissues and just stayed beside him, a comforting presence, handing him tissues and carefully rubbing his back as he buried his face in a tissue, crying quietly from there on out.

John eventually felt like he’d run out of tears, his face feeling crusty and hot and just overall feeling exhausted. He ended up just closing up the duffel, not caring to pack it any better. He ended up sleeping restlessly that night. He had another nightmare, just like almost every night he’d been in the hospital, only the dreams were becoming more vivid. They had started with just the generic feeling of falling, but over the last couple of days they’d become more specific: Hyperion, along with many other dragons, falling out of the sky along with him heading towards barren earth below, screaming. and he woke up the moment before he hit the ground, jolting awake with an aborted cry. He could only lay quietly afterwards in the dark, panting and willing away the images of broken mangled bodies behind his eyelids.

John’s flight was in the morning, and his lack of sleep did not dull his nerves in the slightest. He was packed into a jeep and sent on his way at dawn, the first light of the sun touching the high archs of the Aerie’s doorways as they drove through them. They pulled into the courtyard and John’s heart began really pounding when he saw the gigantic pair of navy blue dragons sitting side by side with their wings neatly folded at one end of the field. The Aerie was alive at dawn, people moving around like ants coming and going with their tasks. A large number of them appeared to be preparing for the cargo flight. There were three large crates set out on the field along with some smaller ones filled with miscellaneous boxes and objects. John noticed that there was a dragon already laying down in one of the crates, a large bandage swathing one side of its head and down its neck. it’s rider stood next to the uncovered side. Another box had a rider coaxing another injured dragon into it, the poor grey thing limping horribly. And then John felt Hyperion. The dragon was nearby and the bond was flaring. He turned towards the hall where Hyperion’s enclosure had been and saw Omar leading John’s hobbling dragon out. On nervous shaky legs John took off running, stumbling towards them, needing the dragon’s full presence on him, wanting the calming warmth to slow his panicky heart. He hugged Hyperion’s foreleg like a lifeline, feeling the bond wash over him quickly as he took in a long steady breath.

“Good day to fly,” Omar commented. John let go of the leg so that Hyperion could continue to walk. That simple phrase threw John back into the moment, where flying was soon to be a reality. He stared up at the Master with a pleading look.

“You’ll be fine John,” he told him, “Just keep telling yourself that. It’ll be okay, these two have experienced riders and crews who know exactly what they’re doing; they’ve flown loads of dragons and cargo out of this Aerie.” One of the pair began to rise to its feet, towering once it was up. At full height Hyperion’s head might have reached the cargo dragon’s shoulder; it dwarfed Hyperion, and he was the size of a house to begin with. John and more than a few others stopped to watch as the massive creature stretched its huge wings out in what, at a distance, looked like exercises, first both wings then one, then the other, up, down, then repeating.

Omar continued to push John, along with Hyperion towards the largest of the dragon crates. As he had said, it was padded well and very comfortable. It had windows installed in the sides, but John had no intention of actually using them. He got a whole body shiver at the thought of looking down while up in the air.

Hyperion climbed into the large box slowly but willingly and settled into the cushioning, leaving his head out for the time being, like the other wounded dragons, while they waited for the doors to be closed. John stayed right next to him, Hyperion being the only thing that was keeping his heart from bursting out of his chest at the thought of the monstrous pair nearby picking them up. The more he thought about it the harder it was to fight it away and Hyperion nudged into him with his cheek, sending him small hints of concern across the bond.

Then one of the gigantic pair moved. Its huge paws made the ground vibrate even at a distance, and the sound of the various bits of its carrying gear dragging the ground was like a death chorus in John’s ears, the scraping of large metal hooks and rope and chains. The riding crew lifted them up and as a coordinated team moved with the dragon to position for loading, but John’s mind was already off in another world picturing those ropes and chains failing and being dropped from the sky. 

The other carrier dragon then stood and began to stretch its wings like the other had, its massive wings blocking out the rising sunlight like a new blanket of blue-ish black night sky had appeared instead of the sun.

“He’s impressive, isn’t he?” a lady asked, appearing next to John. He startled at the sudden question, having being frozen in place by the sudden unwanted mental image of one of the massive beasts falling with him strapped to its belly.

“I-impressive?” He croaked; his knees felt wobbly and Hyperion was the only thing really keeping him standing.

“Of course, gigantic Nordic blues, a rare breed, they hatch small and grow fast, but being a rider to something that big…” She whistled with an appreciative grin as she stared at the stretching dragon. John looked up at her. She wore dark burgundy leather gear, which hugged her form and left little to the imagination even with her parachute kit on. The little skin visible underneath the gear was pale, and she had sharp face, red lips, and dark hair pulled up and ready to go under her helmet. She was beautiful. He realized he was staring when she coughed, bringing him back to the present.

“Good to know you like what you see, but not right now alright big boy?” 

John blushed and quickly tried to look anywhere else. She chuckled at his embarrassment, “My name is Irene Adler. I will be one of your carrier’s escorts today,” she said with a soft smile.

“Oh? Oh, that’s good, good to know.” John stumbled over his words in the wake of his embarrassment.

“I was also the rider that helped you get here. The red dragon at the village, she’s mine,” she told him, pointing in the direction of a small group of dragons being saddled and harnessed for riding, and drawing his eye towards a fiery red one amongst the vibrant colors.

“That was you?” As John looked he did recognize the red. “Erm, thank you, for helping us,” he finally said.

“You don’t fly well, do you?” she asked after a tense moment of silence, smirking at him while he nervously petted Hyperion’s cheek, stroking over the soft scales beneath his eye. 

“No, not at all,” John admitted, looking back towards the carrier pair. The one currently loading up had the two smaller dragon crates, along with some of the small miscellaneous goods. The doors had been shut on the crates and they were being loaded onto the belly of the beast standing over it all. All of the items, now secured and attached to the flight harness covering most of the dragon’s body, were additionally fixed in place by a large net wrapped beneath them. A man in a uniform similar to the others in the carrier’s crew walked towards John as they watched.

“We are ready to load you on to Sig here, so I’m going to need you to get in with your dragon, sir,” he said politely, gesturing at the crate where Hyperion’s body was already curled. The dragon himself lifted his head away from John and obediently tucked himself the rest of the way in, out of the way of the door. The moment his hand left Hyperion’s face John’s heart accelerated again, the calmness he gained when in contact with the dragon fading quickly. John looked up at the crate as though the fairly luxurious-looking box had just transformed into a tomb, and his last wish was not to be locked into it. The crewman seemed to notice when John’s face paled and his knees turned to jelly, and laid a hand on his good shoulder.

“Sir? Are you feeling okay?” He asked, as John leaned into the contact a bit.

“He has a fear of flying,” Irene chirped from nearby, but in John’s ears her voice sounded distant as his brain decided to flash every dragon he’d seen fall and perish on the battlefields past his eyes.

“Oh. Well, if you would just come with me, sir, I’ll help you get settled, and hopefully, allay you of your flying fears a bit.” He put his arm lightly around John’s shoulders and led him towards the suddenly terrifying box. He helped John climb shakily into the padding and followed him, keeping away from Hyperion who had turned his head to watch the proceedings with one golden eye.

“Now, you will be perfectly safe in here with your dragon, nothing extreme is going to happen, no sudden dives or flips or any nonsense like that. you’ll feel some shaking when we first take off, and when we land, but nothing to worry about,” he said calmly and slowly, helping John get seated next to Hyperion. The crewman then walked over to a panel in the wall next to the door,

“This is how we can talk to you, make sure you are alright down here, and it works both ways. just pick up this little receiver and you can talk to one of us up top too.” He pulled a receiver on a long cable out of a little recessed spot on the wall and clicked the button on its side to show him how it worked.

“You’ve also got a little cubby here with some food you can eat during the flight; and if you feel like you are going to be sick, there are vomit bags in here too, but we hope you won’t have to use them,” he said cheerily, pulling the items out of the small cubby hole for him to see: a few packs of snacks and water as well as the paper sick bags.

“Oh and there’s a little bathroom in the back there if you need to go, and if you would like the lights off for any reason the switch is here next to the radio,” he added, pointing to a little box shaped stall at the far end of the crate and then demonstrating the lights.

Regaining contact with Hyperion had helped calm John for most of the explanation, but as the man rose to exit the crate John’s heart leapt into his throat again.

“Er, erm, w-what if we fall?” John stuttered, lurching up a bit onto his knees, following the man.

“We won’t fall, I assure you, we’ve made this flight hundreds of times perfectly safe, and if we do fall there is a parachute in that cubby I showed you. The emergency switch to open the door is in the little glass case near under the light switch, but you won’t need it at all. If it makes you feel safer you can put it on for your own peace of mind, but I assure you nothing will go wrong and everything will be fine,” he told him, returning to help John sit down again. “ Hold onto your dragon, he’ll help calm you down, I’m sure of it.”

With a kind smile, the crewman patted him on the good shoulder and then turned and jumped out of the crate where his team waited to close the door. As the door slid shut John couldn’t help the image of a tomb door closing on him returning to his mind. John felt the giant dragon moving into place over him, its footsteps shaking the crate minutely. He peaked out the nearest window for one last look at the ground, to have it blocked by a large blue foreleg. John moved over along the wall, crawling until he found an open window and could look out and see the crewmen skittering around the dragon as they secured its cargo to its belly.

When the dragon lifted the crate off the ground Hyperion was unfazed by the slight jostling of the box. John, however, felt his pulse skyrocket and he felt a little dizzy. he heard a little static come from handset on the wall.

“Dr John Watson, come in Dr John Watson…” He heard and scrambled for the receiver. “Y-y-y-yes, I’m here!” he nearly shouted clicking the button. The voice came back with a different person on the other end.

“Dr Watson, this is your rider speaking. Sig is a good girl and we’ll try to make your take off as smooth as possible. I’ve heard about your problem and would suggest you just sit with your dragon and try to remain calm, take deep breaths, and relax for a nice flight home to London.” The soothing voice came over the radio perfectly clear, and John followed the instructions, taking the receiver with him when he found out the cord would stretch that far. John leaned back against Hyperion’s neck, the bloom of the bond acting as a balm on his already frayed nerves.

“Okay, w-when do we t-t-take off?” John stuttered out, hand shaking as he clicked to respond. He laid his head back against Hyperion, trying to breath slowly.

“Momentarily, there will be a brief radio silence as we are lifting off, but we’ll be right back and talking to you as soon as we level off and get going in the right direction,” the rider responded. The crate rocked as the dragon shifted its weight. John had a moment to look out the window and see the other carrier lifting off before his own decided to do the same and the initial push pressed him down into the padding. The take-off shook the crate and John felt like his heart was about to explode. He heard giant wings beating and saw the ground fall away outside the windows. He clung to Hyperion with his good hand, as the quick jerky up and down motion of lift off threw his stomach into his throat. Hyperion seemed to be pushing as much comfort at John as he could while John curled up against his neck, breathing hard and trying not to hyperventilate right at the beginning of the flight. The world was spiraling out of control for him and it wasn’t stopping anytime soon.

The jerking movements slowly tapered off, the up and down didn’t go away completely, but the severity of the motion did. John lay panting on the mats next to Hyperion, shaking hard.

“Dr Watson, come in Dr Watson,” The nearby receiver spoke to him finally. John shakily reached for it and pulling it up to his face.

“I-I-I’m here,” he whimpered out, his voice cracking horribly.

“Okay, Dr. Watson, we’ve leveled off. Everything is going to be fine and smooth from here on out, just relax. If you want to talk at any time you know where to find us,” the voice on the other end told him calmly. John rolled onto his back, still panting and shivering after the panic; it was going to be a long flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are always appreciated, thank you.


	3. First Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got a little long... I can't thank my beta Nautilicious enough for helping me by cleaning up my errors and bad punctuation.

The flight to London was a nerve-wracking event. John spent about an hour or so after the radio returned off and on pinging the flight crew, talking nervously about anything he could think of, just so it wouldn’t be so quiet he could hear the great wing beats of the giant dragon above him. Once he had exhausted that route and could no longer think of anything to ask them, he crawled over to Hyperion again, determinedly _not_ looking at the windows, and insinuated himself into the curl of the dragon’s body.

Hyperion himself seemed drugged. He wasn’t moving much, and when he did it was with a lazy groan and sluggish motions, which reminded John of seeing the family dogs drugged for travel. That didn’t make him any less frightened, since the drugs seemed to be dulling the effects of the bond minutely. John could feel Hyperion pushing comfort and calm at him, but it was a slow trickle compared to the full waves he had experienced before.

John managed to wedge himself into the crook of Hyperion’s elbow right next to the dragon’s large heart. John lay with his back to Hyperion’s chest, staying off his still slung arm, and absorbed what he could of the dragon’s comfort and warmth. Every time the crate juddered in any way John tensed and his heart beat faster; he’d clutch at Hyperion’s thick-scaled forearm a little more and curl himself tighter against the heat at his back. He’d remind himself to breathe steadily, that nothing was going to happen to him, that he was perfectly safe, and with those thoughts he fitfully dozed with his dragon.

John was startled awake by his own belly grumbling for food; he hadn’t eaten anything that morning beyond a small packet of crackers that came with his breakfast, and it was coming back to bite him. Frightened as he was, his body still complained for food. He crawled out of his safe spot to get to the cubby of food the crewman had showed him, and instantly regretted it. There was a sudden shift, which flung John into a (thankfully, padded) wall.

“Dr Watson, just a little bit of turbulence, nothing to worry about. We are correcting for it up here; all is fine,” the radio reported, as John tried to right himself against the wall. He found himself face-to-face with a window. John saw a vast view of mountains from far too high up. If he had been able to appreciate it he would have, but he felt like the bottom had dropped out of his stomach; he felt dizzy and suddenly very nauseous as he looked down. The ground seemed so far away. John scrambled for the cubby for a whole different reason than before, and only reached it just in time to grab one of the sick bags and heave up what tiny amount was left in his stomach. He coughed and hacked up bile for a few moments until he had nothing left , feeling sore and empty.

“Christ, I hate flying,” John murmured, leaning hard against the wall and trying to steady his breathing and stop shaking. He eventually did manage to find a relatively harmless package of crackers. He slowly munched on them and sucked on a small water bottle. Afterwards he shakily made his way back to Hyperion and wedged himself into place next to his dragon, dozing off again while the crate continued its slow up and down rocking.

John woke at least a dozen more times during the flight by a small shake here or a light judder there. Each time a larger one rattled the crate, a kind crewmember would come over the radio, tell him what had caused it, and not to worry. Hours and hours passed like that, drifting off to Hyperion’s light breathing, only to be awakened by the smallest of shakes to their compartment. At one point John got up and, shuffling with his back to the windows this time, grabbed a sealed sandwich and water and settled back down. 

There was one more rough shake like before, when they were over Bucharest. That one had thrown John into the side of Hyperion’s neck, leaving him in a gasping heap on the padding as he tried to get off his injured shoulder. Hyperion lifted his head briefly to help slowly nudge him back onto his right side then lay back down. It was pitch black outside; they had been flying all day, and there were a few more hours to go. John decided to dim the lights and called up to the crew to talk with one of them for a moment, before nodding off leaned back against Hyperion’s neck.

It was late in the night when John, roused from his fragmented sleep to use the tiny loo, received a call over the radio that they were about to begin their descent into London Aerie.

“Dr Watson, we will be landing momentarily. There will be some mild shaking similar to take-off, but otherwise a nice, slow descent.” John braced for the mentioned ‘slow descent’; he wedged himself up against Hyperion’s belly and waited for the weightlessness of a dive.

None came, true to their word: after a long and slow descent, John began to see the lights of the city glowing through the windows. When the shaking began, it went much shorter. John was so overjoyed to be on the ground again he could have wept. The jerky movements subsided with four massive thudding sounds when the carrier’s giant paws hit the ground.

“We’ve landed, Dr Watson, please remain seated and away from the door. A crewmember will be down shortly to collect you.” The world went back to slow swaying motions as John clutched to Hyperion’s side, giggling with hysterical joy at the nightmare being finally over. One more thud when the crate was lowered to the ground and then everything stopped moving. John was still curled up with Hyperion when he heard the seal on the door open and many voices suddenly invaded the quiet space.

“Dr Watson, you can come out now; there is an Aerie master here to see you,” a familiar crewman’s voice called. John flinched when a hand touched his good shoulder and looked up to see the same kind-faced crewman who had met him before. He uncurled from his position to realize he was shaking and had to be helped up. The man helped lead him towards the door and out into the cool nighttime air. As soon as John’s feet hit solid ground he took in as deep a breath of that air as he could, coughing lightly on the exhale. He was happy to be home and down on the ground. 

“Dr John Watson! Welcome to London Aerie!” The shout came from a man walking towards him through the crowd of carrier crew gathered around the crate. The man was nowhere near as bulky as Omar at Kandahar, still a bit taller than John though, and had short, silver grey hair. He wore a wide smile as he approached John, hand outstretched.

“I am Master Gregory Lestrade.” He took John’s hand in a firm handshake. “Good to have Hyperion home, unfortunate it wasn’t by his own steam, but at least he’s in one piece.” He put an arm around John’s shoulders, leading him away from the veritable swarm of flight crew and general Aerie workers gathered around Hyperion’s crate and the cargo boxes that had been strapped around it. 

John’s legs still felt about the consistency of jelly as Master Lestrade led him away. The continued exposure to the cool night air helped clear his head some after the stressful ordeal of the flight, but it would still take some time before he would feel like he wasn’t about to collapse. He looked back at the open crate where Hyperion was still curled and dozing. John didn’t want to be separated from him again; if anything, in that moment he wanted to plaster himself to his dragon and never let go. Lestrade seemed to notice his hesitancy and once they were out of the clutter of people, moving things about like ants dismantling a newfound biscuit, he turned with him to watch as they began coaxing Hyperion out of the container. The dragon groaned lazily but obeyed as Aerie staff helped him uncurl himself a bit, letting him stick his long neck out and get some cool fresh air to bring him around. John got a dimmed projection of happiness from him as he took in fresh London air; John had almost forgotten this was Hyperion’s home as well where Hyperion had been born and raised. The Aerie was more his home than it was John’s; it may be in London, but the Aerie itself was alien territory for John. 

“Master Omar called, he told us you were a field bond and hadn’t gotten the chance to really sit and bond properly with Hyperion,” Lestrade said conversationally as they watched his people work. 

“Yes sir,” John replied, watching the dragon lie with his head on cool stone while the crowd around him slowly cleared.

“No need for the sir, just Greg or Lestrade will work when you’re not on assignment.” He clapped John on the back. 

John looked up at the smiling Master. “Yeah, Greg?” He said, hesitant. John had assumed Omar was just a particularly informal Master, not that they were all like that. He’d been expecting a stuffy, grey-haired posh man waiting to look down his nose at him at first sight. Yes, this man sported silver hair, but he had the same air as Omar did: a kind welcoming demeanor, hardly as sinister a figure as the title Master conjured in his head.

“There you go, we’ll get you fitting in in no time. Now, this issue with bonding, that needs to be dealt with. Can’t feel too great to you or him, being separated like you’ve been.” Lestrade thumped him lightly on the back again, pulling him back towards Hyperion on still shaky legs. The initial clamour of people around the crate had subsided to just handful of workers around the lone container. As soon as John was close to Hyperion’s outstretched head he reached for him, fighting the urge to just fling himself onto that warm snout, and placed a hand firmly between the nostrils and rubbed. Hyperion’s golden eyes slitted open, staring lazily at John as he let out a sigh and very subtly pushed into John’s hand. John looked up at Lestrade, a twinge of concern flitting across his heart.

“What did they give him?” He knew it had to have been something the people at Kandahar had given him to make Hyperion so sluggish.

“Just a sedative; keeps the dragons from moving around too much during the flights. It wouldn’t do too well for the dragon up top with that much weight shifting suddenly,” Lestrade explained, moving past him to lay a hand on Hyperion’s snout, petting him as he walked past his head towards the coiled body in the crate. “Oh, they did a number on you didn’t they?” he mumbled to himself, looking at the large bandages that swathed the area below Hyperion’s wing and the ones that curved up onto his back from the hip wound on his other side. 

“Do you think he could stand up, John?” Lestrade suddenly asked, after looking Hyperion over.

“Er, you’d be able to tell better than me si- Greg.” The Master should know these things better than the novice.

“You can feel him, can’t you?” Lestrade asked. John nodded. “Well, ask him then,” he prompted. “I doubt he can, but it never hurts to ask the poor creatures.” 

“How about it? Do you think you can stand up for us?” John asked. Hyperion barely shook his head, a dull feeling of defeat and ‘no, I don’t think so’ slogging its way across John’s mind. “I think he’d agree with you on that opinion Greg,” John told Lestrade still rubbing the big creature’s nose comfortingly. Lestrade came back around to Hyperion’s head and patted his cheek.

“Looks like we’re going to have to keep you out here for the night,” Lestrade said. “We’ll wait for the sedative to wear off some, then get you back in your pit and have a visit from Dr Hooper.” Hyperion let out a grunting snort, eyes opening a bit wider as John felt a sharp pin of unease. John shot a glance at Lestrade. 

“Who’s Dr Hooper?” John asked 

“She’s the veterinarian for our division, Molly Hooper, sweet woman, honest. Hyperion’s just as bad as a child about check-ups, has been since he was a fledgeling.” He moved over by John in front of Hyperion’s head. “Now. We’re gonna get his head tucked back in, and you’re going to stay out here with him for the night. Get that bond settled in a bit more.” Lestrade bent and made the motion to lift under Hyperion’s chin.

“It’s a bit cold isn’t it? Out here in the open I mean?” John asked, as a couple of the lingering Aerie staff came to help Lestrade coax Hyperion into moving. Hyperion groaned and let out a huffy sigh before lifting his head slowly on his own and curling back on himself into the padded crate. John felt a throb of annoyance from being handled and bothered so much cross the bond, along with a smidge of gratitude at John’s concern for his comfort. 

“You’ll be fine for the night,” Lestrade told him, chuckling a little at Hyperion’s grumpiness. He raised his arm, suddenly waving at someone in the distance who had emerged from a large hallway similar-looking to the ones that had spoked off of the courtyard hub at Kandahar. 

“We’re going to move the crate over to the wall; you’ll get some cover from the wind and be out of the way over there, and here come some blankets.” Lestrade indicated the person approaching, a woman, who he could now see was carrying a huge armload of blankets. 

“Here’s what you asked for, boss,” she said, dumping the load into Lestrade’s arms. She brushed her fluffy black hair out of her face with a playful smirk as Lestrade nearly buckled under the weight of the bundle. 

“Er, if you could take the big one, Sally, that’d be grand,” Lestrade said. She rolled her eyes and took the massive sheet that made up the bulk of the mound back.

“John Watson, this is my second in command, Sally Donovan.” Lestrade introduced her, taking the smaller pile over to the crate. John held out his hand to shake hers when she shifted her bundle to offer. 

“Ah! So you’re the freak’s new roommate!” she said, her eyes widening and a small smirk pulling at her lips.

“Sally!” 

“What? He is!” she whined as Lestrade came down out of the crate again, a glare hardening his face for the first time since John had met him. 

“Sally, go get the ground crew to move Hyperion’s crate,” he ordered sternly.

She huffed and leaned towards John, murmuring, “the guy you’re rooming with is a bloody psychopath, he is. Best to keep your door locked at night and keep away from him if you see him.”

“Sally,” Lestrade prompted, taking the last big blanket from her. Sally sighed and wandered away to do Lestrade’s bidding. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

John looked back at Lestrade, eyebrow raised in question. 

“I swear she’s a good woman, just her and Sherlock rub each other the wrong way, have since they were first starting out,” he sighed, rubbing his hair back. Sherlock-- the name sounded odd in John’s mind. It had an eccentric ring to it, and from Sally’s ominous warning maybe there was a reason the name sent a tiny thrill up his spine. 

“Anyway, your bed awaits, you must be tired.” Lestrade gestured up to the crate where Hyperion lay curled, already snoring from the sound of it. He helped John climb back up into the padding just as John heard the mechanical rumbling of an engine nearby. John looked out the window to see a large forklift-type vehicle moving towards them. Lestrade led John over to where he had deposited the smaller blankets and a pillow that had been wrapped among them.

“That should keep you warm through to morning; snuggle up to Hyperion and you’d be able to weather winter out here,” Lestrade told him with a laugh, helping John lay out the blankets against the back of Hyperion’s neck. The rumble of engine noise came steadily closer while they worked on getting his bedding ready. It stopped next to the crate just as Lestrade unbundled the biggest blanket. A worker called for them to brace themselves and John had about enough time to make a grab Hyperion’s neck before the entire crate shook and sent him falling on his arse into his bedding. Lestrade caught himself on the wall and staggered over the doorway.

“Oi! Watch it!” he shouted over the roar of the toiling engine as the lift moved the container. John heard a very faint, “Sorry, Boss!” before Lestrade turned back to him.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbled, offering a hand to help John sit up.

“No, no, its fine, of all the tumbles I’ve had over the last couple weeks that was a kiss from a kitten in comparison,” he replied with a chuckle. His mind drifted towards more self-deprecating thoughts: he would have caught himself if he’d had the use of his other arm. Hyperion grumbled as the crate rattled along, and John felt a small surge of encouraging emotions, beating down even the small disparaging thoughts that had begun to rise. The crate was put down over against a wall more gently than it had been picked up. John helped Lestrade pull the largest blanket over Hyperion’s wings before they were re-joined by Sally.

“You should be all settled for now. Get some rest. If you can’t sleep, just sit here close to Hyperion and bond with him. I’ll send Sally round to fetch you in the morning for breakfast; by then we should be able to move the big brown beast here back into his pit.” Lestrade gave Hyperion’s neck one more good pat before moving towards the door and hopping out next to Sally. 

“Greg!” John called as the two turned to leave. The Master paused, looking at him. “Thanks. For this,” he finished lamely, holding up a corner of a blanket. Lestrade just smiled.

“No problem.” And with that they left John to the silence of the crate, the only sounds being the great whuffs Hyperion’s breathing and the distant noises of late night activity on the landing field.

John turned the lights in the crate completely off and felt his way back to his blankets. He managed to slip out of his shoes and slid between the blankets, pressing himself up against his dragon’s warm neck. The faint glow of the landing field’s lights seeped around the corner of the doorway and through the line of windows, so he was not in the complete pitch black. John lay there for a moment just breathing steadily, finally, completely relaxing after the stressful day. As he relaxed, he noticed the gentle waves from Hyperion’s mind pushing happy feelings at him. The feeling of being home for the first time in months and months, the joy of smelling the England air again and letting that cool humidity fill his nostrils. That was accompanied by one of the strangest feelings he had yet to get from Hyperion’s mind, the feeling of the dampness aiding in the shedding of his scales, a light skin crawling sensation skittering across John’s neck and back. 

“Hyperion, please don’t think about shedding for now,” he pleaded sleepily, feeling the neck behind him shift as the dragon huffed a laughing sigh. Hyperion, thankfully, moved on to other feelings revolving around home, and lulled himself and John into the first peaceful sleep either of them had had in weeks.

John awoke the next day to bright sunlight streaming into the crate, birds tittering somewhere far off, and general sounds of people working beyond the walls of his padded box. As he came around though there was one distinction his brain made, the tittering wasn’t birds: it was laughter, children laughing. John sat up, untangling the sheets from around his head as he rolled onto his elbow. He blinked sleepily at the blinding light in the wide open door, but as the world became more focused he noticed a line of heads peeking over the edge of the floor.

“Well, hello?” he mumbled, confused, propping himself up against Hyperion’s neck to look at the kids. They were staring at him now; they’d been chattering away right until he moved. John could hear little snippets: whispering. “That’s not Victor,” and “he’s got a new rider, guys.” Finally one voice piped up, a pair of hands appearing at the edge and another head pulling itself up to see him.

“Can we see Hyperion, please?” the little girl asked, looking nowhere near John’s face, her green eyes gazing up instead at the big sandy dragon behind him. The rest of the bunch looked at her with daggers in their eyes. 

“You can’t just ask him that?!” the taller boy next to her whispered loudly, bumping her with his elbow. She lost her grip and fell off the edge with a squeak. John was up in an instant.

“Oi, she just asked a question.” He shuffled towards them and they all scattered back from the door. John braced his good arm on the edge and looked down at the girl sitting on the ground.

“Are you alright?” he asked, ready to hop down if she’d been hurt.

“I’m okay, sir,” she replied, getting up and dusting off what appeared to be a uniform. All the children were wearing them, loose sand-colored pants with lots of pockets and blue shirts with the Aerie’s logo on the back.They all had bookbags with them. The ones who had moved away looked at the ground guiltily.

“What did I tell you lot about running ahead?!” shouted a familiar voice, making John look up. Sally was marching towards them, looking angry. The kids all seemed to shrink even further in on themselves, not looking her in the eye. 

“To not to, Commander Sally,” they all recited as she loomed over them. 

“Yes, now, line up and wait patiently for further instructions,” she ordered in clipped tones. The whole group scuttled to obey; the small girl ended up at the back of their line.

“Sorry about them, Watson, they get a little over-excited sometimes,” she apologized as John sat back from the edge. 

“It’s fine, they just wanted to meet Hyperion I think, is that right?” he spoke a little louder, noticing the lineup leaning in to listen to the adults talking. They all straightened up again, but the littlest one spoke. 

“Yes, sir. Victor wouldn’t let us near him before... We just wanted to see he was okay,” She looked up at John with puppy eyes, but Sally was unfazed. 

“You can visit him once he’s back in his pit and you’ve finished your classes,” Sally told them. All of them moaned at her decree, including the little one, but then the cute eyes turned on John and pleas of, “can we please sir?” began.

“I think it’s best you listen to her.” John chuckled at the chorus of aw’s that met him. He looked back at Sally, who had climbed up into the crate and was retrieving John’s boots from where he’d left them. 

He tried at striking up conversation as she started helping him get the shoes on.  
“So, who are these little ones? I can’t imagine they all belong to you.” 

“Of course not!” she snipped, shoving the boot onto John’s foot, making him wince. “Sorry. No they’re not mine, they’re riders in training, nestlings, still a couple years off from potentially getting dragons,” she explained, being a little kinder with John’s other foot. “It’s my turn today to take them to breakfast and lessons,” she added, as John hopped down. He looked back at Hyperion, still asleep in the crate, the bond connected with Hyperion’s sleeping mind lying dormant on the other end. The sunlight made the flecks of gold in his scales shine all the brighter along his neck, and John could easily see why the children were so awed by him.

“What about him?” John asked, resisting the temptation to crawl back into the box with Hyperion and go back to sleep. Sally laid a hand on his shoulder.

“He’ll be fine, let him sleep. Lestrade will be along to get him up in a little while. Just this one last separation, and then you can sit with him and bond for a few days straight like is proper.” Her voice was gentler than John had ever heard her be so far in their acquaintance. John swallowed and nodded, giving Hyperion a long look before he followed the light tugging of Sally’s hand. She pulled him away from the crate and over to where the children waited, fidgeting in their line. 

“Now, you will stay nearby all the way to the cafeteria,” she told them. At the sign of rolled eyes amongst a couple of the boys she took on a wicked grin and leaned in close to the eye-rollers. “If you don’t, I’ll let Melinda take a nip at you; you wouldn’t want that would you?” she whispered. The boys shrunk a bit and quickly shook their heads, “No, Commander Sally.” 

With that they proceeded around the massive landing field towards one of the large halls. In the daylight, John could see how huge the courtyard was, gigantic compared to Kandahar Aerie. Where Kandahar, from what John had seen, had been all smooth brown walls with paintings and rounded weathered edges, London’s Aerie sported grey stone, like cathedral walls, precisely cut and beautiful, with murals painted inside the stone frames of sheltering alcoves and nooks. Around the edges of the grassy center, tucked against the walls, were the other two crates from Kandahar, but at a distance it was impossible to tell if they were still occupied. The pair of carriers lay curled in two giant balls of blue scales together at the far end of the field, sleeping. As they neared the hall Sally led them towards John saw that there were directional signs and he thanked his lucky stars that the halls were marked, because if the Aerie was as big as he was imagining then the signs would be needed.

John sped up in order to walk next to Sally with the children walking obediently behind. “Who is Melinda?” he asked curiously, after a long silence. 

“She’s my dragon.” 

“You wouldn’t really let a dragon do that would you?” John asked, startled by the prospect of such small kids being chased by as big of a creature as a dragon.

“She’s gentle as a lamb; since she hatched Melinda’s never bitten anything other than her dinner. She’s just the resident boogeyman for the nestlings because they’re not allowed to deal with her until they’ve been at the Aerie for a while, This lot gets to meet her in the next few days,” she explained, nodding towards the kids, who had picked up their pace and were following even closer now that the adults were talking again. 

John smelled food cooking as they turned and made their way into the smaller halls meant only for humans. His belly grumbled loudly at the scents of breakfast wafting by; the kids giggled behind him at the squelching noise in the quiet corridor. The smells came from a large set of double doors propped open at the end of the hall; the room beyond was marked with a sign above the entryway: ‘Cafeteria’. 

The place was just as large in scale as the rest of the Aerie, a wide open oval space with tables all over, round ones, long ones, bar stools kept to the edges, some sofas mixed in, not exactly all matching but at least a comfortable place to eat and meet. At the center of the room was a sort of round dias that sat empty aside from some younger Aerie members sitting along its edges eating, and on the opposite side of the room was another pair of open double doors leading out. The ceiling was a white sheet stretched across tight like a drum with support poles poking into the middle of it. The morning sunlight shone through the white canvas and illuminated the whole area without the need for any other lighting. They were by no means the only people in the room; all sorts were scattered at the tables, some in groups, some alone sitting fiddling with phones or buried in newspapers or magazines as they ate their morning meal. To one side there was a long counter complete with bar stools and taps, which appeared to be closed so early in the morning. The food was on a buffet line set up near the bar, by doors to what John presumed was the kitchen; the children were already scurrying towards it for their plates. Sally sighed and followed them, John trailing along behind her. 

John was nearly drooling over his own plate by the time he had it piled up with food and they had found a seat; Sally had rounded up her gaggle to sit at one round table with mismatched chairs. 

“So, how long does breakfast last?” John asked after swallowing a large fork full of sausage partially bathed in the juice of a popped egg yolk. He hadn’t had food this good in ages; if breakfast was this good off a buffet he looked forward to seeing what dragon riders ate for lunch and dinner. 

Sally swallowed a chunk of cantaloupe before responding, “Breakfast is 6 to 10, any later than that for any meal you’re getting scraps, snacks, and cereal bars, or you’re cooking for yourself. Lunch is noon to 3, dinner is 6 to 10 as well-”

“Class is at 8:30!” chirped the little girl from John’s elbow, stabbing a bit of waffle and accidentally slinging a bit of syrup on the table in her enthusiasm. 

“Yes, and if you don’t eat up you’ll be late. You all know how tetchy Mr. Moriarty can be in the mornings,” Sally warned. 

“He’s like that all the time,” one of the boys grumped, stabbing something on his plate that looked like it might have been a mushroom until it was slathered in an amalgam of baked beans and smashed hash brown. 

“Well don’t make him worse, he’s only subbing in for a little bit longer, then you get your regular teacher back,” Sally chided, ignoring the subtle cheers of the kids. The rest of the meal went by relatively quietly. A low murmur of morning conversation buzzed faintly around the room along with the clatter of dishes being deposited at the returns near the doors. The kids scarfed down their food and were waiting patiently for Commander Sally to finish her meal as well. The small talkative girl at John’s elbow suddenly looked up at him, tapping him on arm while he wiped his mouth.

“We never asked! What’s your name?” she asked urgently.

John chuckled at the intensity of the simple question, “I’m Dr John Watson, you can call me John.” 

“Yes sir, John,” she said.

“What’s yours?”

She looked bashful, blushing and instantly finding her fidgeting fingers far more interesting than his face. “My name’s Mary,” she mumbled.

“That’s a lovely name.” John smiled at her, then looked up at Sally who had just finished her food as well. 

“Now, everyone done, ready for a day of learning? Good. Off to class,” she said standing and grabbing her plate. “Remember your things. Didn’t get anything on your uniforms did you?” she added, making sure they all grabbed their book bags off the floor and the the backs of their chairs and giving a cursory check of their shirts for stains. 

“No, Commander Sally,” they chorused, pulling their packs on. They all grabbed their plates as well and started off towards the door in a line, little Mary at the back as before. 

Winding through corridors both massive and small brought them to a large courtyard covered in grass with small single doors at regular intervals around the edges. In a long stripe around the wall was a mosaic reading ‘Nestling Preparatory School of London Aerie’ with murals of eggs and small dragons interacting with people, taking up the rest of the courtyard’s walls above the doors. One of the doors along the wall was propped open and as they entered another bunch of children filed inside. Sally’s group broke out of their line and quickly made their way towards the door as well, but she followed them over, John coming along behind her. 

“Sorry about them, Jim, we had a little detour this morning,” she told the man standing just inside the door. His mouth curled into more of a smile, replacing a tired-looking sullen expression, as Mary scuttled in past him and it only grew as he looked up acknowledging Sally.

“Oh, it’s no problem. I just called them in, everyone on time today.” A wide grin split the pale, slightly rumpled-looking Irishman’s face. The poor man looked like he hadn’t seen the sun in ages, and he raked a hand through his greasy looking hair again as Sally spoke to him. 

“Good.” She gave him a small smile back before she swung his attention to John. “Jim, you remember Hyperion, right? Meet his new rider, John Watson, John, Jim Moriarty.”  
She stepped aside, presenting John to him. John extended a hand to shake with a friendly, “Hello Jim.” The smile melted right off the man’s face, his black eyes darting from John’s hand to his face and back, not taking it but just sort of staring until John began to feel uneasy and withdrew the hand. 

“N-new rider? Hyperion came back with a new rider?” he said, looking owlishly back at Sally. 

“Yeah, Jim, Victor didn’t make it... But John here bonded with Hyperion, that’s at least good news, isn’t it?” she said gently.

“W-well yes, I suppose so. Good for Hyperion.” Jim’s eyes flicked back to John, a tiny spasm of a smile twitching the corner of his thin mouth upwards. He finally offered his hand to John for a weak handshake. “Bless you,” Jim mumbled, strengthening his grip just before he let go. Just as John was about to ask if he was alright Jim straightened up with a smile directed towards Sally.

“Well! Classes starting for the day. Young minds to feed. Nice of you to drop by, see you again soon, Commander. Watson. Bye now.” He was positively cheery again by the time he finished talking and reached for the door. Sally managed to rush a farewell ” before he shut the door on them. Beyond, John could hear a faint, “Good morning class!” and a mildly grudging, “Good morning, Mr. Moriarty,” from the children. 

“Is he okay?” John asked Sally as she led him away from the school’s courtyard and back into the larger halls of the Aerie, expertly guiding him through the forming morning bustle of people, carts, and dragons, heading towards the landing field. 

“Jim? He’s harmless really, he’s just trying to find a place that works for him at the Aerie since Aidan passed away.” She said, her tone turning grim. “We try to not talk about it around him.” 

“And Aidan was his-” 

“Dragon, yes,” Sally finished for him. 

“Oh.” John looked down at the worn stone beneath his feet. That must have been awful for Jim; even with a partially solidified bond with Hyperion it had felt bad to be separated from him. To break that bond completely… a small tremor ran up John’s spine at the thought of it. The new revelation made a swell of pity form, clenching just below his heart for the poor man, the words “ex-rider” sounding painfully in his head.

“How’d it happen? If you don’t mind me asking.” John kept his voice low in case this wasn’t something meant to be talked about in public halls.

“Aidan was an albino ridgeback, a shy, quiet little thing. Poor boy was diagnosed with cancer a couple years ago and died shortly after the first attempts to save him. Jim was devastated, obviously,” she explained as they walked. “He’s been in and out of therapy since it happened, just hopping from job to job around the Aerie lately--” John heard the ping of a text being received and Sally pulled out her mobile to check the message.

“That’s Lestrade. He says Hyperion’s ready to go.” John hadn’t even noticed that Hyperion had woken up on the other side of the bond, the connection was still tenuous between them at a distance. He concentrated on it and in return he felt a very faint, mildly woozy feeling of accomplishment.

They continued to the landing field, coming out of a different hallway than they had left by, entering farther away from Hyperion’s crate. Said dragon was out of the crate and stood leaning a shoulder heavily against it. A small team of Aerie staff and Lestrade stood around him; Lestrade near his bowed head, hands upraised in a placating manner towards his panting muzzle. The closer John got the more he felt the exhaustion coming from Hyperion, the muzzy tiredness of having to stand coupled with an underpinning of pain coming from limbs stiffened by injuries and immobility. An urge at the back of his head told John to run to him, even though he was not that far away and running would not help the situation at hand. But the fact that Sally and a Master were present kept him walking; no reason to embarrass himself in front of them. Sally gave him a sidelong glance with a small smirk.

“You can run if you want. We won’t hold it against you,” she told him quietly.

“What?” 

“I’ve seen young new riders try to restrain themselves, if they’re separated from their hatchlings, and they usually end up crying on their dragons once they’re reunited.” She nodded towards Hyperion, who had his nose against Lestrade’s hands just bracing against the shipping crate. “I’m just saying, we won’t judge you if you feel like you need to act a little more irrationally around him right now. We’ve seen it before.” 

John hesitated for a moment, taking a few steps a bit quicker before pausing and looking back at Sally. She made a shooing motion. “Go on.” He took off towards Hyperion, letting himself have a good run for the first time since he ran across the battlefield where they’d met. He didn’t have far to go, but getting there quicker made him feel better. Hyperion’s discomfort grew stronger in the back of John’s mind as he neared the panting dragon. It made him slow the last few strides. Lestrade saw him coming and, with a grin, stepped out of the way so that John could reach for Hyperion’s snout.

“Here you go, here’s your rider,” John heard Lestrade say soothingly to Hyperion as he arrived, the great sandy neck bowing a touch more to nose at John’s outstretched hand. John felt a sharp burst of longing and affection intertwined the moment skin met scales. Hyperion had missed him just as much in the short time he’d been gone to breakfast as he had when John was gone back to the hospital in Kandahar overnight.

“I’m sorry boy, I promise I won’t leave again,” John murmured up at him, butting his forehead against Hyperion’s nose gently, trying to echo the affection back to him. Happiness radiated at John, a small clicking, laughing sound coming from the dragon’s throat. John wished he could properly hug Hyperion, but with his arm strapped down the best he could really do was lean into him. Lestrade stepped up again and put a hand on John’s shoulder to get his attention back.

“We’re going to have you walk him to his pit. No more splitting you two up for at least a few days,” Lestrade told him, stepping back next to Sally, who had caught up already. 

“It’s hurting when he walks. Is there anything I can do for that?” John said, the doctorly part of him concerned about Hyperion’s health; he wanted to help against the pain, but didn’t know how.

“He’s stiff from staying in one position for too long, and any painkillers he had at Kandahar have most likely worn off long ago,” Lestrade replied, walking around Hyperion’s legs. “He can make it, just take it slow. He can rest and lean on a wall if he wants, no laying down again until he’s in his pit. I get a feeling once he’s down he’s staying there for a while.” 

“Hear that, Hyperion? Just have to walk a little further, then you will be home and you can rest,” John told him stroking a nostril. Hyperion groaned tiredly, pushing weariness and annoyance into his mind. “Come on, I know you are tired, but you can’t stay out here.” 

An idea popped into John’s head; he started to back away from Hyperion’s nose, carrot on a string to this particularly stubborn and hurt donkey. It worked: John eventually got far enough away from him that Hyperion’s only option was to break contact or take steps forward. The first step made Hyperion push his weight onto his injured shoulder and he quickly limped closer to John to take the weight away again. John continued to back away from the crate murmuring praises to his dragon as he limped along. Lestrade and his crew stayed nearby, guiding John towards the proper hallway. Lestrade sent Sally ahead to open the doors to Hyperion’s ‘pit’. They had almost reached the hall when Hyperion took a break, leaning against the corner abruptly, grunting loudly down into John’s face, eye’s pleading for the brief stop. 

“You’re doing so well!” John told him, his own limbs beginning to ache, a sort of phantom pain seeping across the bond on a constant level now that Hyperion was moving. John hadn’t really noticed it before, but then again Hyperion hadn’t really walked much around him; just the short time it took to get him into the crate at Kandahar, and by then the sedative had probably begun kicking in. Hyperion had been lying down whenever John had seen him. 

The phantom pain intensified, making John feel the need to limp himself, the pain sticking in his leg around his thigh in roughly the same location as the wound on Hyperion’s hindquarters. The longer they stood still the more John felt it, and the more it worried him, so he called Lestrade over.

“Greg, the bond. Can riders feel pain across it? Physical pain, not just him telling me he is in pain,” John asked, shifting his weight to try and alleviate the twinging phantom sting like a slash across his thigh. It felt that if he were to pull down his trousers at that moment he’d find a cut on his leg seeping blood.

“Are you feeling something?” Lestrade cast a glance over John.

“Yeah, my leg.” He grimaced, reached down to massage the spot where it ached the most, knowing that there was nothing there but feeling it all the same.

“Yeah, you’re going to get that for a while. Its in your shoulder too, right?” 

John nodded, now that Lestrade mentioned it he felt a pronounced ache in his good shoulder as well. 

“The blessing and curse of a bond, we get the bad with the good I’m afraid. My Bertram had a rotten tooth once, gave me a splitting headache for a couple days until we found it.” Lestrade patted John on the back. “But look at it this way, its a good sign; means you’re bonding with him well and its getting stronger,” he said, grinning before he moved over to where Hyperion was still resting. ducking under his belly to look at the bandage still swathing his left leg. 

“Should have told me that,” John grumbled, still rubbing his own leg.

“What was that?” Lestrade called, tugging at the bandage over the wound; even at a distance John could see a very faint tinge of red seeping through.

“I’m going to need a cane if this gets worse!” John replied, speaking up.

“That’s no problem.” Lestrade ducked back under and away from Hyperion, calling over one of the crew still hovering nearby. “He’s popped a couple stitches, go tell Miss Hooper she’s going to need the equipment to repair it,” he ordered before coming back to John. “We had better get him moving again, He broke a stitch on his hind leg, but he should be fine to walk the distance to his pit. Just talk him home like you were doing before,” he told him, reaching up and stroking Hyperion’s cheek, smiling confidently up into the golden eye looking tiredly at them.

John grimaced as he put weight on his leg, “Just a little further, Hyperion, look, I’m hurting too.” Hyperion nuzzled him when John said he was hurting, his feeling of concern overriding the general malaise. Hyperion didn’t want John to be in pain any more than John wanted him to be. “It’s okay, it’s not too bad, we just need to get you feeling better and I’ll feel better, alright?” 

Hyperion nudged him again, letting out a gusty warm sigh as he shifted off the wall. John caught a small spike of an apology, regret with concern, ‘I am sorry I am hurting you.’ John just pet his nose and started moving again telling Hyperion that it was okay, it doesn’t hurt that bad, if anything he must feel worse being the actual bearer of the wound. Hyperion shuffled around the corner following closely after John. They walked along, the first portion of the hall only splitting off into the smaller tunnel-like corridors similar to the ones that had led to the cafeteria and the children’s school, shortcuts between the large dragon halls and access to places that dragons weren’t meant to be. Lestrade assured John that he would be given the grand tour of the Aerie in a few days once he was properly bonded to Hyperion. The stabbing pain in John’s thigh worsened as they walked, enough that he was limping too. They came to a crossroad with another pair of wide open doors ahead, emblazoned with an intricate carving of a shield and a roman numeral two on a plaque below it. Hyperion stopped at the doors momentarily to rest again.

John looked up at the door and down the hall, seeing banners hung at regular intervals between doors both open and shut all bearing the same crest: a blue shield with a silver caduceus, above the shield reared a silver dragon, and below it was an inscription reading ‘ _Celerem ad Tuendam_ ’. Blue and silver filigree decorated the space around it making it stand out even more on the dark wood of the door.

“What’s that mean?” John asked Lestrade, pointing up at the shield, his Latin being a little rusty.

“Oh, our crest? It means ‘Swift to Protect.’ They came up with it ages ago when the division was new. Back then we were meant to protect caravans of merchants and travelers from robbers and wild dragon colonies.” He chuckled, looking up at Hyperion, “We don’t do that anymore of course; we’ve got big ones like Hyperion here who qualify for military combat duty, but for the most part we’re just the Dragon Parcel Service: mail delivery, shipping, goods transportation, that sort of thing.” 

John felt a sinking feeling in his gut. To go from army doctor and the frenzy of the battlefields to what sounded very much like mailroom duty only with dragons was a bit of a depressing progression. Lestrade seemed to notice John’s deflated attitude and quickly added, “but don’t worry we get our share of excitement; why just last month we had a crate come through carrying a whole nest of smuggled Hummer eggs and a couple had hatched en route.” Lestrade grinned at the memory, but for John that only opened more questions, what on earth were Hummer eggs? Surely they weren’t related to the massive vehicles… John noticed Lestrade’s grin fading when he didn’t react to the story. The Master coughed lightly, changing the subject. 

“Anyway. Our division of the Aerie covers five halls, the numeral is just the hall number, this is the second hall of the five, ten pits on each hall, the rooms come in pairs, A and B. For example, Hyperion here is in 2-21a, your flatmate, that’d be Sherlock, has 2-21b,” Lestrade glanced through the aforementioned door, “and it looks like he’s out at the moment.” He sighed with the same air as someone who has had to go find a hiding child far too many times.

Hyperion levered himself from the wall and shuffled on his own towards his door, picking up a bit of speed at the sight of home, looking back at John to make sure he was following. John stayed close, limping along behind him. Sally stood at the open doors, waiting underneath a sign with the number 21A on it. She presented John with a cane.

“Greg said you’d be needing this,” she told him simply. 

He thanked her and continued on into the enclosure. John was shocked by what he saw. It was nothing like the barren room where Hyperion had stayed in Kandahar. Hyperion’s ‘pit’ was bigger, taller, and was completely furnished and waiting for him; the only thing even remotely resembling the lodging at the other Aerie was a sand pool in the middle and a light colored covering stretched across as a ceiling. Even that was different, since it appeared to be on a system similar to the one at the school where it could be easily rolled away. At the far end of the room lay an absolutely massive cushion that looked for all the world like a giant lumpy futon mattress, perfectly sized for a large dragon such as the one ambling towards it. The whole room contained multiple nooks and crannies to explore, alcoves carved into the stone walls containing large cabinets, racks, and workbenches, awnings stretching along walls providing shelter for an ancient looking sofa and a myriad of potted plants, huge palm trees in massive glazed brown and tan pots all of which looked as though they’d been rubbed bald on one side by a massive cat, and even a quiet fountain big enough for Hyperion to stick his head into.

No time to search through cupboards and plants though, as John watched Hyperion slowly lie down on the giant mat at the back of his home. That was the best he could describe it, a dragon home. It wasn’t a ‘pit’ as everyone kept calling it; there were comfortable touches to the large space, things that made it look lived in, like scratches on the walls that looked too small for Hyperion as John knew him to have left them --they probably had stories to them. An honest-to-god tapestry with Hyperion’s name on it in large gothic letters hung near the door under the shelter of a recessed stone frame. And in the protection of the alcove for the workbenches John could see that there were a few pictures tacked to the board above it. 

John hobbled over to the mattress looking up at Hyperion, who had laid himself out on his side. He stretched his free wing outwards, covering John momentarily in a massive semi-translucent tan tent. John felt a massive wave of contentment wash over him; pure bliss and happiness poured across the bond, completely overriding any pain from the walking. The feeling was so strong John could almost feel it travel from the tips of his hair to the soles of his feet like a nice long full body stretch, and it left him feeling as though he was glowing with the joy that suffused him, a warm smile spreading across his face. Hyperion let loose a large sigh, snapping the wing back in, his head loling on the tile as he let all his muscles go lax.

“Don’t get too comfortable just yet!” Lestrade called from the doorway, pulling John’s attention. Lestrade had John’s bag in his hands. _When did he get that?_ John thought hazily.

“Oh?” John called back, a little dazed from the deluge of wonderful feelings swamping his mind.

“He’s got an appointment with Dr Hooper today, bandages to change, stitches to fix, all the fun stuff.” Lestrade brought over the bag and set it down on a workbench. John heard a low grunt behind him and turned to see one golden eye popped open and staring right at Lestrade; a low hum of ‘no’ coursed under the bliss from earlier. 

“I don’t think he likes that idea,” John told Lestrade, chuckling lightly. 

“She just wants to make sure you’re healthy, coward!” Lestrade raised his voice at Hyperion, wandering over to John where he sat on the edge of Hyperion’s mattress, his cane propped against the side. 

“Now, you’re going to stay here and bond for the next couple of days. The farthest you’re allowed to get from him is the public bath down the hall. You can bathe in the fountain over there if you want, we’ll shut the doors, you’ll both have privacy--” Lestrade started listing off what John would be doing for his first days at the Aerie, when Lestrade’s phone beeped in his pocket. He paused and pulled it out.

“That’s Molly, she says she’s on her way over.” Another grumpy snort from Hyperion accompanied the announcement as Lestrade texted a reply. 

“Where was I? Oh! We do have a physical therapist scheduled for you. She will be around this afternoon to start working with that arm. Your meals will be brought to you, don’t worry about that. And if he feels up to it Hyperion’s got some toys in the closets to play with I’m sure. I’ll have Sally bring some books by, you’ve got some learning ahead of you” Lestrade seemed to have exhausted his list of things to do. “Otherwise, just relax. Bonding is usually a very calm, happy time for rider and dragon. There’s normally some ceremony to this, traditions and all that, but you’re a special case, so just leaving you two to bond is the best we can do for now.” That prompted John to speak finally.

“What would the ceremony have been?” he asked, wondering if other riders would be looking down on him for being without it.

“Well, its more part of the hatching ceremony than anything,” Lestrade said, sitting down next to John on the mat. “The eggs in a clutch all hatch roughly around the same time; some take hours and hours to hatch while others pip and come out right away. Either way the young riders picked for that clutch get gussied up in their special robes and then have to sit and wait near the eggs until they hatch. Once the hatchlings are out, the rider gets a plate of fresh, raw meat--well depends on the breed, sometimes it’s fish. Once had a clutch, years ago when I was a nestling, that ate whale. They had to have it specially flown in and everything. If I remember right that was the only time in recent history we had a Nordic lay a clutch here. The rider hadn’t realized her dragon was gravid till the eggs showed up on the field. Shocked the whole Aerie. No one except the rider and crew had seen Nordic eggs before. Tiny eggs for such big dragons. Her rider, after the initial embarrassment passed, was proud as a peacock over her girl’s first little clutch. Her whole crew doted over them and cared for them as if they were their own children.” Lestrade’s face took on a fond look at the memory.

“So, they feed the hatchlings.” John prompted. 

“Yes. The hatchlings lay out and dry a little, get used to breathing air and stretch out of their eggs, and then their riders feed them. They get all messy and dirtied up with the first feed and that is when the bonding begins, that first contact made over food.” He glanced over at Hyperion, who had closed his eyes again, and back at John. “If an injury were to happen it would be there; a clumsy tooth here a flailing claw there, but nothing serious usually happens. The riders name them after that. Then the pairs are lifted onto fancy litters and carried to their assigned pit to get cleaned up. After that, they sit and bond properly for five days straight, like you’ll be doing now.” Lestrade finished. The whole event sounded intriguing to John. He still had no idea how riders ended up with their dragons and his was no means of comparison. 

“I’d like to see that,” John said, “the hatching, not the bonding.”

“Stick around here long enough and you’ll see so many it’ll become old hat.” Just then there was a loud clang on the open door. 

“Ah, there’s Dr Hooper now!” Lestrade said, standing again. 

The woman standing at the door waved with a small, nearly inaudible, “Hello.” She carried enough equipment to nearly cover her; she had on a lab coat, lightly dirt-stained,with a small hip pack underneath. She carried a bulky backpack over one shoulder and a tool belt over the other, and she held a large sealed bucket in her free hand. The moment the knock came Hyperion’s head went up, staring right at her with a disconcerting intensity. John had to commend her on her bravery for still approaching with that severe of a gaze upon her. 

“Good morning, Molly, how’re you doing?” Lestrade asked once she had come closer.

“Oh, good.” She had such a quiet voice even up close. She set her tools down and John felt Hyperion suddenly shift behind him; he had to grab his cane and stand or be pitched off the mat by the great dragon’s shuffling. Hyperion managed to get from relaxed and laid out on his side to sitting up, much like a cat with his long tail wrapped around himself; if he had had fur, John imagined his hackles would be up and fluffed as much as possible to look even more intimidating.

“Hello Hyperion!” Molly called up at him, crouched next to her large pack and rummaging through it, producing a big pair of shears and a frighteningly large packaged syringe along with some massive swaths of gauze and a box containing vials of medicine. As she unpacked more from her bags John heard a low hiss coming from behind him, and if the panic prickling up his spine over the bond was any indicator then a look at Hyperion’s face made it clear: Hyperion’s eyes were wide, pupils contracted; he had his head cocked to the side staring down at Molly, watching her every move. His mouth opened slightly, his tongue flickering just barely out enough to see the forks. With every deep breath came a protracted hiss from between Hyperion’s teeth, like a snake warning off a predator. It was nearly comical that a diminutive woman like Molly could invoke such a potent reaction from a massive dragon; John would have laughed if he hadn’t keenly felt the distress flowing into his mind.

“Er, Dr Hooper--”

“Oh, you must be John. Molly is fine, really.” 

“Molly. He doesn’t seem too happy about you,” John finished lamely, glancing back up at his huffing dragon. He had seen human patients who were scared of doctors, certainly, but a creature the size of Hyperion was on a whole other level; a wrong move could end up with Hyperion crushing or biting the cause of fear. Hyperion’s thin-slitted eyes were beginning to scare John. He didn’t want Molly to be hurt if Hyperion decided to strike at her.

“Yes, I know, he’s been that way for years,” she replied calmly, taking off her lab coat and hip pack and pulling on the tool belt. “He won’t hurt me, though. It’s all just posturing; he wants me to go away, so he’s getting all huffy and puffy like a startled hatchling because he’s not getting his way.” She tucked the syringe and its vials into the belt’s pockets and then gathered together a few other items. Lestrade was still nearby, leaning on one of the potted trees while observing the proceedings, when Molly stood and moved as though to approach Hyperion’s mat the hissing increased in volume momentarily.

“Oi, you be good for her, Hyperion,” Lestrade warned, only erning the smallest flicker of a glance from the dragon before Hyperion resumed his menacing of the veterinarian.

“John, could you get him down on his side again? I would like to look at his hip first.” Molly asked politely, looking up at Hyperion.

“I can try,” John replied skeptically, limping over to the side of the mattress.

John still felt an almost constant buzz of stress from Hyperion, but his movement did earn him a brief flick of a golden eye. John knew Hyperion had to be getting something from him in return across the bond, and so tried to think calm thoughts, imagining pushing them at Hyperion, like it felt the dragon was doing to him when he got bowled over by Hyperion’s emotions. Hyperion kept casting small twitches of looks at him as John tried to actually push something at him in earnest for the first time.

“Come on Hyperion, she’s not going to hurt you,” he told him gently, raising his hand towards him, even though Hyperion held his head rigidly far out of reach. That was all John could do, with no training on how one would make a dragon do anything it didn’t want to do. He looked over to Lestrade for guidance. The Master only gestured for him to continue. 

“Hyperion!” John called, turning back to his dragon, trying to let the commanding voice of a soldier tint the name. “Hyperion come down here,” he patted the edge of the mat to get his attention. Hyperion’s whole head tossed in his direction this time, looking down at John and sending conflict pinging through John’s mind. ‘I want to pay attention to you, but there is an intruder in my home,’ the curiosity for John clashing with the mild fear of what Molly was doing when Hyperion wasn’t watching her. 

“You know her, she’s seen you for the last, er,” He looked to Molly, who quickly held up eight fingers for him. “Eight years! You must know she won’t hurt you,” John told him, using the same easy tone he had used with frightened patients. “I’ll watch her for you; I know what she’s doing. I promise she won’t do anything bad.” Hyperion was focusing more on him now, leaning minutely closer. “Come down and Molly can help fix you up, and then she’ll leave, okay?” he continued. Hyperion slowly lowered his head for John, eyes still twitching towards Molly, who stood waiting patiently nearby, watching with a small smile. His scaled cheek pushed into John’s outstretched hand.

“There you go, that’s a good boy,” John murmured quietly, petting the soft scales below a large eye. “Now, roll over, just for me, don’t think about her; I just want to see your belly,” John instructed, still thinking calm thoughts, in case that was actually helping Hyperion in any way. The pupil above him widened slightly as Hyperion relaxed; the hissing and huffing subsided, though his tongue continued to flicker out, bowing in Molly’s direction, scenting her out. John hooked his hand under Hyperion’s jaw, trying to get a handhold so he could tug at him; there was no way he was moving Hyperion’s big head with only one arm available but the motion should get him moving in the right direction. Hyperion cautiously followed, extending his neck, uncurling his tail from around his body, and almost as if in slow motion, rolling back onto his right side, exposing his belly and stretching his limbs out, his left wing rolling open a little behind him to show the whole of his left side.

“Good boy!” John praised, as Hyperion’s sandy head dropped to the stone floor, nowhere near as lax and lolling as before, but at least down and pupils, for the most part, back to normal. John climbed up onto the mat and rubbed the wide smooth scales of the dragon’s belly, reassuring him that the exercise had been for John to see his stomach. When John looked back to where Hyperion was obediently laying his head he saw Lestrade had approached him, using both hands to scratch at a space behind the crown of spikes at the back of his head.

“Such a good boy, listening to your new rider so well,” John heard Lestrade telling him quietly. John rubbed Hyperion’s belly a little more before returning to his head to take Lestrade’s place. 

“Okay, you’re doing well, can you hold still like this for me? You are fine, everything is good. No one is going to hurt you, just lie still and relax for a bit,” John told him, stroking along Hyperion’s snout as one yellow eye followed him. Hyperion nodded for him, a miniscule wave of anxiety pushing over the calm John projected for him. 

Out of the corner of his eye John saw Lestrade wave for Molly, who slowly got up onto Hyperion’s mat and began working. She made careful contact with Hyperion’s skin, laying a hand on his hind foot first, just so he knew she was there. Hyperion’s head quickly tilted, lifting off the ground and looking sharply out of the corner of his eye back down the length of himself at Molly a short hiss curling his lip. He held his position, obeying John’s request, but a tension hung in the air. 

“Down,” John prompted tugging at scales again to get his head down. “Down. She’s not doing anything you need to see, just lie still, focus on me and she’ll be gone before you know it,” he calmly told the tensed dragon. Hyperion grudgingly put his head back down, eye still shifted back trying to watch Molly. 

Molly simply continued to move her hand up Hyperion’s leg until she had to grab a hand-hold on his scales and hoist herself up onto Hyperion’s waist, straddling him on her knees next to the bandages on his hip. She pulled the shears from her belt and proceeded to cut and peel the bandages away. John had never seen Hyperion’s wounds after they’d been bandaged. It was immediately apparent to him that dragons healed much slower than humans did. Where by now John’s wounds were for the most part scabbing or healed over, with the exception of his shoulder, the massive cut looked almost like it had been made a day or so before. The stitches were the only real indicator that work had been done to fix it and even then, just as Lestrade had surmised, a handful of the stitches had broken, allowing the red slash to reopen. The bandages Molly peeled off were discarded by Lestrade as she tossed them away, stuffing them into a large trash bin near he’d found by the workbenches. 

“Oh, poor dear,” Molly tutted, gently inspecting the angry red slash.

The moment John saw her pull the large syringe out of a pocket was the exact moment a spike of fear stabbed through John’s mind. John threw himself across Hyperion’s snout just as the dragon was trying to lift his head again, “No! Stay still, stay relaxed, it won’t hurt. You are a great big brave war dragon, this little poke won’t hurt you!” John told him urgently, clinging on with his good hand until Hyperion reluctantly laid down again, nostrils flaring and eye strung out looking, straining, to see Molly, but down. “Molly what’s in that syringe?” John called, still slumped over the warm nose.

“Just a local anesthetic,” she replied, having stopped when Hyperion began to struggle with her on his hip. 

“Hear that? I know you can hear other people besides me. I don’t know what has you so scared, but all that needle is going to do is numb a bit of your leg so she can patch you up.” Hyperion stilled beneath him, breathing hard. 

Hyperion suddenly grunted and closed his eyes, all the muscles in his face scrunching into what John could tell was a grimace. John arched an eyebrow as he slid off the muzzle looking at the now stiff dragon, mildly confused until he looked back and saw that Molly had taken the opportunity to slip the needle between Hyperion’s scales and stick him, depressing the plunger easily. Hyperion’s muzzle remained wrinkled even after she removed the dreaded needle.

“You really are a giant child, aren’t you?” John chuckled, recognizing a sour petulant note flickering across the bond. “If you didn’t put up such a fuss she’d already be gone I hope you realize.” The pain causing John’s limp was actually fading as he stood there, replaced instead by a light tingling sensation, the numbness Hyperion was feeling. 

John remained right at Hyperion’s head as Molly continued her work once the anesthetic kicked in, stitching the open wound back together with an extra large curved needle. Hyperion’s face eventually did go lax; though his breathing remained a little on the quick and shallow side and he refused to watch Molly now, golden eyes more content with staring unhappily at John. John continued to talk to him, plying him with comforting words and quiet praises. Molly taped the large strips of gauze over the stitches, creating a smaller covering than what Kandahar had done. She checked the area over one more time then hopped off, giving Hyperion’s side a pat as she went.

“That wasn’t so hard was it?” she said to him, climbing down and moving towards John. “I’m sorry John, but I need to see his other side now, if you could get him to roll over for me?” She gave him a pleading look.

“How about it Hyperion, can you turn over for Dr Molly?” Hyperion let out a long, tired groan before he began tucking his limbs back under himself, his numbed hind leg having a only little trouble with the move, scrabbling against the mat a bit until he managed to gain purchase with his toes. He rolled over on his belly and flopped with his back to them, shakily opening his freed left wing behind him to expose his right shoulder. 

John went back to consoling Hyperion as Molly climbed up to check the wound. She went through the process again of stripping away the bandages, these tinged with blood even though once unwrapped there were no broken stitches. Hyperion’s eyes squeezed shut, and John felt the muscles tensing as Hyperion cringed. The wound looked awful, a mess of black stitches covering the area, and dark red blood still oozing forth trying to crust and scab between the sutures. When John had seen it in the field it had been packed with sand and an angry red with inflammation and blood, three distinct crescents ripped into Hyperion’s hide. This looked so much worse and upon seeing it John’s heart clenched hard for Hyperion.

“What happened? It didn’t look that bad before,” John asked Molly worriedly. She inspected the area closely. 

“I was told he recieved the original lacerations in battle and then when he landed at the Aerie he skidded on that shoulder, creating a road rash on top of them.” She pulled out another container and was spreading the gel contents of it across the raw skin. Hyperion hissed at the contact but otherwise remained still, his only motion being to push into John more, seeking comfort.

John murmured reassurances to him with a new level of sorrow squeezing his heart as he realized that the reason Hyperion had injured himself further had been to protect _him. John had been clutched in Hyperion’s uninjured talon, that much he remembered from that night; that would have left his injured limbs to try to support a landing, so instead Hyperion had basically just slid into a crash. John pressed his cheek to Hyperion’s, trying to give a one armed hug “I’m sorry, boy,” he said quietly. Over the low din of pain and stress Hyperion had been projecting, a shivery little poke of ‘its okay,’ reassurance lit up the bond._

Molly re-covered the area with more gauze and climbed down again, finally coming up to Hyperion’s head.

“There, that wasn’t so hard was it?” she said, reaching up to scratch the opposite side of his head from John. “Just a couple more quick checks and you’ll be all done.” Hyperion groaned again his eyes shifting to stare at her. Molly asked Lestrade to bring her a step stool as she moved in front of Hyperion’s snout and said “Aaaah,” opening her mouth for him to see. John backed away a few steps as Hyperion sighed and opened his mouth good and wide for her, his black blue tongue sliding out of its sheath. She took a flashlight out of another pocket and shone it down his throat moving around his head as she checked the inside of his gaping maw. She pulled out another pair of gloves and checked under his lips and around his teeth, checked his tongue and and its sheath and the hole above it that flexed with every breath Hyperion took. “Missing a few teeth, but otherwise fine. Close,” she said with a smile, peeling off the gloves while Hyperion snapped his mouth shut. 

“Do dragon teeth grow back?” John asked, noticing the gaps now that she had pointed them out.

“Oh yes, dragons will shed teeth all through their lives; they grow right back. Not like sharks, it takes some time, but unless you get a break instead of the whole tooth coming out they are just fine,” Molly informed him cheerily, sounding completely happy to share her knowledge with John. Lestrade returned with the step stool she’d asked for and she took it and went round to Hyperion’s right eye first, snapping the stool open and climbing up so she was level with his eye. She checked his eyes with the flashlight, the large golden orbs twitching as she directed them so she could get a good look at them. Once she was done she praised him and petted his eyebrow ridge where most people couldn’t reach from the ground. She did the same with his other eye, directing, checking, praising, petting. 

“One more thing,” she said pulling out an empty syringe. She went over to Hyperion’s good foreleg and quickly and easily found the spot she was looking for sticking him one more time and drawing a blood sample, all the while Hyperion was emitting a very low growl. 

“And done!” she announced. “No more tests for today, and because you were such a good boy you get your treat.” She went back to her kit and picked up the bucket she’d brought in. The moment she unscrewed the lid John saw Hyperion’s eye’s widen and his head shot up, curving his neck back to get closer to her. Fear and stress wiped from the bond in a moment, and were replaced by a hunger sensation so strong John could almost swear his own stomach grumbled in response. Molly laughed at Hyperion before taking the bucket and using it to toss a huge chunk of bleeding, red, raw meat into the air towards him. That was the fastest John had ever seen him move, when he snapped forward to catch the chunk mid-air, swallowing the treat down easily before dragging his tongue across the smooth stone floor to lick up the light blood trail. He followed the trail to Molly where he nosed the bucket itself and stuck his tongue in it obviously smelling meat there as well. Molly put the lid back on before Hyperion decided to try to eat the container.

“Your appetite is good and healthy too,” she chuckled, as Hyperion cocked his head, looking for more food from her. He flickered his tongue at her for a moment before deciding to leave her alone, going back to John and flopping his head down. 

“I’m sorry Hyperion, today’s not your feeding day!” She grinned as she gathered up her things. Lestrade returned from putting the stool she’d used away. 

“All good?” he asked, waving John over.

“Well, he’s a little worse for wear, but I’d give him a clean bill of health for now.” John saw worry on her face as she bit her lower lip, looking over at Hyperion who had just remembered to tuck his wing in, slowly folding it back over his side.

“But?” Lestrade prompted. 

“Well… Those wounds will handicap him, Greg,” she finally said “They are healing, but they’re both deep and are going to scar pretty badly.” 

“Will he be able to fly?” Lestrade asked gravely, adding to the eyes now staring at Hyperion’s back, the bandages on his shoulder peeking out from under a now settled wing.

“He should, yes, but he’s going to have to basically relearn how. The scarring and damage to that shoulder will make it harder to stay in the air for long amounts of time, and the strain of slowing his descent for landing will be where it hurts the most.” Molly told him quietly, as if she didn’t want Hyperion to hear about what pain he would be in for permanently. “The hind leg isn’t going to help either, he’s going to have to learn how to land on that without the leg crumpling under his weight. He will have some amount of a limp for the rest of his life because of that one.” 

John looked at Hyperion. _We’re both so damaged,_ he thought, glancing down at his own slung arm; they had taken the arm out of the sling at Kandahar and tried moving and working with it, god it had hurt. The first time they’d had him move it it felt like he was flaying the muscles from his bones. The attempt had ended with him staring at the ceiling trying to will away tears and breathing deeply through the pain as the nurses helped return his arm to the sling.

“Not to mention the time it will all take to heal, as it is now it’ll take about a month minimum before I’d be comfortable with him doing anything more than basic stretching exercises,” she added. Lestrade sighed at the news, raking a hand across his hair. 

“We have to get him on a regimen, exercise, diet, the lot,” he said, as though he was already forming up a checklist in his mind of what needed to be scheduled and what resources it would take to get Hyperion healthy and back in the sky. He looked to John. “You’re going to be his support through this. I know you’re new to everything, but you start getting any weird feelings off of him you let one of us know.” Lestrade pointed between himself and Molly, “or Sally.”

“Weird feelings?” John asked, arching an eyebrow.

“We’ve seen it before: they get depression like we do, and it shows about as well,” Molly said, a faint frown creasing her forehead. “PTSD too, we’ve been seeing that crop up in them after the recent wars, and the only indicators we get before we can try helping are going to be through you.” Her mouth formed a thin line and John could tell that even though she had worked with them for years this problem was still not an easy thing for her to see. He had seen both of those set in in humans, hardened soldiers flinching and ducking at the smallest sounds that might even begin to resemble a bullet or slumped in a stupor in their beds with barely the will to live on. He couldn’t begin to imagine what either of the tragic illnesses looked like in a creature the size of Hyperion.

“Imagine a dragon going through a war-fueled nightmare. It’s not pretty. We’ll try to help, but the best that can really be done is to keep your distance and use the bond. Touching usually helps, and you’ve handled him wonderfully today, but if he goes into a night terror--and that is a big if-- get away.” Lestrade said, looking intently at John.

“Duly noted,” John replied distractedly, trying to concentrate harder on the bond for a moment. He hadn’t even really thought to feel for anything unusual, and with the off and on contact he’d had since they met, it worried him that Hyperion could possibly already have experienced attacks, _but Omar would have told me if he had, right?_ John hoped.

“You will teach me more about this bond we share, right?” John asked, “no more surprises like the bit with my leg.” 

“Of course. I’ll have Sally include some reading for you with the books she’ll be bringing by, and if anything startles you over the next couple days you only need to call. You’ve got a phone don’t you?” Lestrade asked, pulling out his own as Molly pulled out hers. 

“Oh er, no, I don’t. I had one once, but it got smashed. Funny enough, a warzone isn’t the best place to replace a mobile.” John gave a weak chuckle looking at the smartphone in Lestrade’s hand.

“Ah, well, we’ll have to remedy that, there’s no way you’re running all the way across the Aerie to tell us something.” He put the phone away for now, looking over at Molly.

“Anything else John should know about caring for Hyperion at the moment?” 

“Yes. I want you to take those bandages off and let the wounds air out tomorrow, and, if you can, wash them.” She glanced down at his sling, “er, better yet ask someone to help. Please don’t let him lay in the sand after that, don’t want to muck up those injuries again. Other than that, make sure he gets up and walks around at least a couple times every day, a couple laps around the room and a few wing stretches, nothing too strenuous,” she recited, pointing out the wide ring around the sand pit for Hyperion’s path. 

“Oh and his food. He gets fed tomorrow. Let the attendant show you how its done; he’s getting some medicine with his food, they’ll show you how it all works. And make him drink water! The fountain’s his water bowl, constantly fresh, he needs water like you and me and he forgets to drink enough sometimes like we do too. That about covers it; just have a nice quiet bonding.” Molly gave John a kind smile. She started picking up her things, reaffixing the little pouch at her hip and lifting all her equipment. Lestrade caught the belt when she slung it over her shoulder and nearly overshot it. 

“Bye, Hyperion!” she called as she made her way back to the door with her things. Hyperion let out a loud snort and otherwise just hunched himself into a ball with his back to her a little more, John felt a little nudge of happiness from him and ‘good riddance.’ John sighed. He’d have to figure out what happened to make him hate doctors so much, Hyperion didn’t hate him and he had to know by now John was a doctor, so it must only be his own vets. 

Both John and Lestrade waved their goodbyes as she left. Then Lestrade turned to him.

“Best be off. Your lunch should be here soon, and your therapist should be around after dinner.” With that he said his farewells to Hyperion and clapped John on the shoulder before departing. He closed the huge doors as he left, the mechanism for moving them clanking away inside the walls.

John was finally alone with Hyperion. His leg still feeling strange, he hobbled around the large mat and Hyperion’s neck and head, finding his nose where it had been wedged between the mat and the floor with his eyes closed. John chuckled.

“Are you hiding?” He whispered it loudly. Hyperion responded with a grunt, opening his eyes and pulling his nose back with a swift rush of a negative across the bond. 

“You heard everything they were saying didn’t you, you’ve got good hearing,” John said, stating it as fact. ‘Yes’ and meager joy twisted with sorrow at the statement. “We’ll be okay, just gotta get you healed up properly; and hey I’m a doctor too, not one of your kind of doctors, but I can help.” He climbed up on Hyperion’s mat and patted the forearm of his injured leg before settling down to lean against it. John rested his head against warm scales. He could almost feel Hyperion relaxing, muscles unclenching behind him, wings drooping open somewhat, the overall level of tension John hadn’t even noticed accumulating slowly melted away. 

“Not gonna fall asleep on me are you?” John asked with a laugh when a push of tired mixed with happiness met him along with a physical shrugging motion.

The world fell silent for John for a while and he was happy with that. It wasn’t entirely quiet for him with Hyperion in his mind, but the world around him was still. The only sounds were the comforting bodily huffs and gurgles of Hyperion’s innards working, heart thudding away at rest, and the very distant sounds of movement in the Aerie, a far off dragon’s roar being the most that penetrated the privacy of Hyperion’s room. John eventually laid down with his back still against his dragon, keeping that contact. Hyperion’s resting mind continued to wash over John’s, calmly learning more about each other. The stronger the bond grew the more John could read the curiosities and the concerns; John would think of something and Hyperion would react with a feeling that John could translate as ‘what is that? Where is that? Who is that?’ and so on. John was beginning to feel the same from Hyperion, thoughts, flickers of images, and he would barely break the silence to whisper questions about what he received from Hyperion.

They laid together, minds mingling peacefully for hours. The most John made noise was a brief moment where he realized he had forgotten to call or even write to Harry about any of this; he was about to get up again when he realized there was nothing he could really do about it now, and he really didn’t want to leave Hyperion’s side anyway.

Lunch came at some point, John didn’t care to look at the time. A young man in an apron had knocked on the smaller door set into the bottom of the large ones and stepped in quietly. The only way John became aware of his presence at all was through Hyperion, whose mind gave a quick spike of activity, before he realized that the intruder was just carrying a box full of human food and went back to resting. 

“John? John Watson?” The young man called, shattering the silence, presumably not wishing to enter the room with Hyperion if John wasn’t there. John gave in, it couldn’t be quiet forever.

“Here!” He sat up. The server appeared, edging around Hyperion’s head where it was still curled, eyes fractionally opened. He set the lunchbox in his arms down on the edge of the mat. 

“Here’s your lunch, sir,” he said, pushing the box a little closer for John to reach before he backed off, glancing at Hyperion as if to make sure the dragon was not lurking over his shoulder. John’s stomach gave a small gurgle at the prospect of lunch.

“Thank you,” John replied, pulling the box closer and popping the lid. John’s mouth watered at the smell. The meal was simple, just a sandwich and a little container of small potatoes, carrots and green beans along with a canister of water. The sandwich was warm, though, and the aroma of cooked steak mixing with the sweet smell of beets and honey mustard almost made John forget his manners and simply tear into the food straight away. He looked up at the server with a heartfelt smile. 

“Thank you so much for this.” It was just lunch, and he’d had a fairly hearty breakfast, but he felt so hungry.

“You’re welcome, sir. Usually the bonding kids are ravenous so we figured you’d be the same,” he said with a little grin. “Enjoy your meal, dinner will be around 6 or so.” And with that he left, skirting back around Hyperion. John faintly heard the door close as he tucked into his lunch.

As he ate he could feel eyes upon him and looked up to see Hyperion staring intently at the food in his hands. A wave of hunger flowed stronger over John and it clicked that the reason he was feeling so hungry was because of his dragon, _oh that could be bad_ John mused.

“I’m sorry, but Molly said you don’t get fed till tomorrow,” John said, trying to turn away so that Hyperion couldn’t see what he was eating. The large snout only edged closer, snuffling, pleadingly hopeful pokes coming across the bond. John hesitantly pulled a strip of the steak from his sandwich, looking at it and then back at Hyperion.

“I’m not supposed to do this probably, you know this won’t fill that big stomach of yours,” John tried to reason with the bright eyes and happy optimistic face and feelings staring at him, tongue flickering away between his lips. John couldn’t say no.

“Tongue out,” He commanded holding out the tiny scrap of meat. Hyperion stuck his long tongue out straight for John to reach. John put the piece on the tongue and watched as Hyperion sucked it back into his mouth, a tiny ripple of his throat indicating he’d swallowed it.

John finished the rest of his food quickly, Hyperion still watching but at least understanding he would not be getting more. 

John and Hyperion laid together dozing and bonding for ages after lunch, John didn’t care to look for a clock, time just didn’t matter at the moment. Hurt as both of them were this was the most relaxed they’d been in so long, just lying together and letting their minds do all the work. The sun beginning to set had just started to change the color of the ceiling when another knock at the door echoed through the room, followed by a brief chatter of many voices before one let out a loud shush and the room became, for the most part, quiet again. John heard the shuffling of many feet beyond Hyperion’s body.

“John, dinner’s here, and I’ve brought guests who have promised to be nice and quiet,” Sally said from what sounded like right on the other side of Hyperion’s neck. 

A handful of small heads poked out from around Hyperion’s snout, the children from that morning, all of whom looked a little dirtier than they did when John had seen them last. Mary, too small to see over Hyperion’s snout like the others, came quietly around right next to Sally and up to the edge of the mat, looking up at John. 

“John, can we look at Hyperion?” she asked quietly, as if she was speaking to a sick person just waking up in hospital.

“Just don’t prod at him too much, he’s had a rough day,” John smiled, watching as the other kids nodded along with her. Sally set another large lunch box down on the mat for John along with an identical second one. 

This box held a couple of different things, all of which smelled heavenly. The largest one carried a helping of steak pie along with some peas, carrots and mashed potatoes on the side; when John popped it open he found the rich brown gravy from the pie had seeped over into the rest of the container creating a sort of impromptu steak-y stew with a bit of pie crust on one side. John wouldn’t scoff, it tasted delicious compared to the fried greasy slop he’d been subsisting off of for the past months. A smaller container held a couple of yorkshire puddings, which John promptly added to the gravy mess to soak. The last one held dessert, a hunk of apple pie with rapidly melting custard. John didn’t care if it was apple pie soup by the time he reached it; he was certain it would be wonderful. 

“Sorry there’s so much steak in today’s food,” Sally apologized, opening her box, which contained the same thing as his only with maybe a little more of the veg on the side and a slice of some kind of red berry cheesecake. “There’s usually a bit more variety through the day, but the kitchen had some extra dragon meat yesterday, so it’s a meat day today.” John stopped eating the moment she mentioned dragons in relation to food, looking up at her with concern plain on his face. 

“We don’t eat them, do we?” he said around a mouth of food. His stomach started to feel a little wobbly at the thought, preparing to chuck what he’d eaten already. 

“Heavens no!” she said, looking quickly over at Hyperion’s head, where the children were carefully petting him and scratching behind his crown, to see an eye staring hard back at them both, most likely picking up on John’s distress. “No! The dragons don’t eat all the meat we give them sometimes for one reason or another; so there’s perfectly good, clean, beef or pork or whatever for the cooks to use.” Sally picked up her food and began eating too, as John looked at his, letting his stomach settle for a moment before he resumed his meal. Hyperion went back to resting while kids continued to explore him gently. 

John was just getting to his half-melted pie when Hyperion snorted, making him look up. Mary was sitting astride his muzzle, leaning to look right into one of his now open eyes. 

“Your new rider is nice, I hope you know,” she said, using her raised position to scratch above his eyebrow ridges good and hard. John felt a small burst of happiness at the scratching. 

“Mary, get down from there!” Sally chided, getting ready to get up and pull her off.

“No, she’s fine, he likes that,” John said before she could put her things down. Mary though was carefully climbing down. 

“Sorry, Commander Sally,” she said. Sally looked from John to Mary, weighing her words, 

“John says its alright... Just remember, always ask first. Not all dragons are as easy-going about being climbed on by strangers.” Hyperion shut the eye facing them and slowly rolled his head sideways so that Mary could reach the spot and scratch it without climbing him. John chuckled at the sweetness of the gesture. _How did he ever go to war?._

Once they were both done Sally packed away the boxes to take back to the kitchens and called the children back into order, all of whom let out a small chorus of awww’s as they grouped up nearby. Just before she turned to leave John remembered,

“Sally, Sally! I need to make a phone call, can I borrow your mobile?” he asked quickly, “I have a sister, she’d probably like to know what’s happened to me.” Sally pulled out her phone and tossed it to him.

“Try to keep it short,” she said as John dialed the number.

The call was indeed short: after the initial shock of hearing John’s voice on the phone Harry had started yelling at him to get his arse back home, sounding a little slurred. John managed to finally tell her that he was home, that he was at the Aerie. When she asked rather sloppily what he was doing in one of those big firey lizard places he finally told her he was a rider, that he had a firey lizard of his own now. There was an extremely long silence, the only way John knew she was still on the line was that he could hear her breathing and it sounded like the telly was on in the background. She suddenly sniffed really loudly and John heard a muffled sob before the call hung up. John looked at the mobile for a moment, a little stunned by the sudden and strange hang up.

“Well, she took that well,” John said with a grimace, handing the phone back. 

“She’ll come around. You can call her back in a couple of days once we get you a mobile of your own.” 

“Thank you,” John said, settling back against Hyperion’s forearm. 

The children who had been peering over at them curiously, all said their goodbyes to both John and Hyperion, as did Sally. She told him when to expect breakfast and that his therapist should be by soon before she left with her bunch. Mentioned therapist must have nearly run into Sally on the way because no sooner had Sally left then there was another break in the quiet by a knock on the door. 

The therapist set about helping him right away, and didn’t seem at all perturbed by the dragon occasionally nudging at her back now and then as John grunted in pain. She removed the sling and started him with some basic stretches, laying him down on the mat and helping him get his shoulder moving and trying to regain his range of motion. Through the whole session John felt concerned pangs coming across the bond, and he could see Hyperion’s head hovering out of the corner of his eye. 

“S’okay Hyperion, she’s helping me,” John told him as she tried rotating his arm again, the motion forcing a strained groan out of him. He stopped hovering but laid his head down right next to John next to the mat, keeping an eye on the lady who was making his rider hurt again.

By the end of the session John was at best aching again as the therapist helped him back into the sling, reminding him she’d be back again for another session tomorrow. Hyperion snorted at her as she left and instantly nosed at John a bit, making sure he was okay and in one piece. 

They went back to laying together in peace and quiet for the rest of the evening and on into the night. John did get Hyperion stretch his neck over and drink from the fountain like Molly had told him to do, watching as Hyperion sucked up water slowly, and realizing that was among the multitude of things he’d never actually seen a dragon do before. 

Night fell and John could hear the difference in the Aerie, the very subtle sounds of movement, of other dragons shifting around, carts and cars driving down hallways, people walking and working, the general bustle of a place probably the size of a small city on its own. When the darkness came the hum of work died for the most part, every now and again John would hear the beating of wings passing low, a shadow soaring over the ceiling in the moonlight, but otherwise it was crickets and Hyperion’s regular bodily sounds that lulled him into a sleep along with the tired dragon. 

Some time in the night John was awakened by his bladder. Grumbling, he dug the torch out of his duffel, and slowly got up, pulling his coat over his shoulders and leaving the radiating warmth of Hyperion's body, preparing for the long chilly trek to the baths down the large hallway. The moment John opened the door he nearly pissed himself. The door banged into something: his flashlight caught a tall figure and lit up a long white face briefly before the figure shoved the door closed again on John. 

By the time John had collected himself, made sure he hadn’t just soiled his trousers, heart pounding in his chest as he slowly opened the door, whatever had been there was gone. John passed the light of his torch down and across the hallway several times before he deemed it safe to go out and clutching his torch a little tighter made his way down the hall to the loo. Completely unaware of the eyes watching him from the door across the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it took a while for this chapter to come out, work combined with health issues decided to really try and slow me down. But I'm still working away on this, updates may just be a little bit slower, please be patient with me, thank you.


	4. Bonding Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my beta Nautilicious! Thank you so much for helping edit this fic.

After spending most of two days in bed, John felt he should move around more the following morning. Despite his determination, he ended up relaxed against Hyperion well into the morning, until a knock at the door heralded the arrival of breakfast. The young lady kindly placed the box of food near Hyperion’s mattress while John sat slumped and nodding off again against Hyperion’s arm. She exited with a quiet reminder to try and eat breakfast while it was still warm. 

Breakfast was a sluggish affair; he took a few more moments of peaceful drowsiness before he finally got up and unpacked the food. He sat in the curl of his still sleeping dragon to eat his breakfast of steak omelette, bacon, hash, and toast with jam. John wished he’d been coherent enough to ask the attendant about coffee, but the orange juice in the canister would do just fine. The repeated reminders to relax and bond echoed in his head; he didn’t need the caffeine boost anyway. 

Finished, John curled up and napped a little longer, until the sun rose high enough that the white canvas ceiling glowed and lit the room. Hyperion woke just as lazily as his rider. John watched as the large eyelids scrunched closed against the light briefly before they slitted open to reveal golden eyes hazed by sleep. The bond bloomed awake with joy to see John still there, and John realized he’d never watched Hyperion wake up before. A wide stupid grin plastered itself across his face. 

“Good morning, you,” John mumbled quietly. Hyperion calmly pushed a soft swell of happiness across the bond that warmed John to his core and made him feel amazing. Being allowed to sleep so long and not be interrupted by blaring emergencies or shouting higher-ups at ungodly hours of the morning was such a new occurrence, after years of the military beating into him the instinct to be up and running at the drop of a hat. To be able to wake up, calmly eat, and just enjoy a calm morning, even go back to sleep for a while if he chose, that was a luxury in the extreme after frontlines and battlefield hospitals. 

Hyperion yawned a massive, jaw-cracking gape, the giant barrel of his chest expanding behind John as the rest of Hyperion’s body lengthened out once his mouth snapped closed. His long neck flexed outward, his back arching and limbs and wings stiffening out away from his body momentarily as he stretched away the sleep, transferring the feeling of a good full body stretch over to John as he relaxed again with a large sigh. 

John decided to take the chance, now that his dragon was awake, to go get a drink and freshen up. Hyperion’s long neck snaked out after him and he and John shared a drink at the large fountain. Hyperion was still sucking down water as John started to strip, gingerly removing the sling in order to get his now two day-old shirt off, hissing and grunting when he was forced to rotate at the shoulder. Hyperion pressed comfort and concern across the bond, even with his nose in the water. 

The bond was definitely stronger; John was clearly feeling the subtle tinges of ‘are you all right? Be careful, you are hurting yourself.’ conveyed by the emotional mix he received from Hyperion. He replied with his own pushed thoughts of reassurance: _I’m okay; I have to move this arm; its all right,_ while carefully peeling the small pads of gauze away from the wounds on his shoulder. They were healing well so far, but he’d always bear a set of ragged starburst scars.

Stripped, John quickly climbed into the bowl of the fountain. The water was bracing, not exactly warm, but not so cold it was intolerable. Holding his injured arm tight to his side, John waded into the pool up to his waist, held his nose, and quickly dunked himself. He resurfaced just as fast, gasping against the cold of the water, the rivulets running down his face momentarily blinding him. 

The bond changed from the light hint of concern to curiosity, John recognized the same feeling from when he was a child and would see something new, asking ‘what is that?’ over and over. He quickly scrubbed hands over his face, opening bleary eyes to meet a giant pair of gold ones over the edge of the fountain. Hyperion stared intently at him, watching John as he let himself float onto his back, hurt arm held across his belly. The bond took on an inquisitive note of ‘what are you doing? What is that?’ Hyperion’s eyes flicked with tiny movements over all of John. John suddenly realized what the questions were about and quickly dunked himself again up to his neck, covering himself with his hand. 

“What? You’ve never seen a cock before?” John asked, chuckling. This was yet another thing he hadn’t thought of. Of course Hyperion had seen Victor, at least way back when they were bonding, right?. During days of wanting to do nothing but laze around and bond, at some point the boy would have had to get up and bathe. Hyperion glanced at the closed door and back to John, who was kneeling on the bottom with a hand still cupped over his genitals in case he was offending the intelligent creature. 

“Oh, he ran off to use the public bath didn’t he?” John caught on quickly. “Well I didn’t want to leave you alone that long. Am I really that shocking?” He asked, slowly shuffling closer to the edge of the fountain to conceal himself against the wall. “Or is it you’ve just never seen a naked human before?” A negative darted across the bond quickly followed by a positive as Hyperion tried to answer the questions. John caught a faint flicker of an image in his mind: man pulling clothes tight, adding to them, cold, no, concealed, loving, friendly, but private. Contact, body warmth in hands, and face, and… feet? Maybe, rarely though. 

The image built John a sort of mental picture of a taller man who, while loving to his dragon, stayed distant and cold as far as skin to skin contact went; a person who definitely, even at a young age, did not just take his clothes off and skinny dip in a pool in front of other people, or at least in front of a creature like Hyperion.  
“I’m sorry, does it make you uncomfortable? I can put something on, it’s all right,” John asked. Hyperion turned his head to look back down his neck at his own body about the same time as a feeling of no and mild comfort of ‘it’s okay’. 

“You’re naked, I’m naked,” John grinned as he watched the dragon thinking about it, contemplating his own constant animal nudity versus John’s temporary human nakedness and came to a final conclusion of ‘yes, I don’t mind.’ The flittering images skipping across John’s mind were of himself stripping compared with another picture of Hyperion’s full harness being removed, bits of gear shaking away, and a sudden rush of watery coolness replacing the leather straps.

It hadn’t occurred to John that a fiery creature such as Hyperion would really bathe, submerged in water, maybe a dust bath or something. John chuckled again, so much to learn. Those books he’d been promised would hopefully help fill the gaps in his knowledge quickly. 

“You take baths like I do, don’t you?” Hyperion looked back at him at the laugh, and a resounding yes lept across the bond. John got the same odd skin-crawling feeling Hyperion had shared on their first night on the Aerie landing field, scales peeling away accompanied by a lovely happy feeling radiating from Hyperion, like that was one of the best feelings in the world to him. 

“Shedding. Water helps you shed,” John realized, once he got past the eerie feeling that brought to mind the sensation of large area of skin peeling off after a sunburn. A physical nod and a yes in his mind and John moved closer to the nose resting against the edge of the fountain’s bowl. 

“When will you shed?” John wondered to himself, rubbing wet hands against dry scales. Hyperion enjoyed John’s touch; even though the bond was becoming stronger without it, it still felt strongest when in actual physical contact. John splashed some more water on him, just having some fun, laughing when Hyperion snorted and splashed him back. 

John decided it was time to get out when he noticed the cool water was starting to make him shiver and his fingers prune. He dunked himself a couple more times, running wet fingers through his too-long sandy hair before climbing out. The moment John’s feet hit the floor Hyperion huffed hard, nearly unbalancing John as the warm air washed over him. John squinted eyebrows drawn in confusion. Hyperion pushed a quick picture of a man: Victor in from rain, sopping wet, Hyperion drying him in the same way he was doing to John, watching with amusement as hair fluffed and frizzed. John laughed, getting the message and leaning into the warm gusts while he was blown dry. 

John slipped the sling back on once he was sufficiently dried and, reassured that his naked form didn’t bother Hyperion, simply strode back to his duffel bag for clothes. He threw on a pair of pants, with some mild contortion to get them up his legs single-handed, and trousers, he left the rest of him bare, not even bothering with boots or a shirt. Hyperion’s home was nice and warm considering the time of year; the white canvas ceiling held the warmth in nicely. By the time John had dressed, Hyperion had already curled his neck back in around himself. The bond emanated a sort of light sulky feeling and John turned to see Hyperion’s head cocked and staring.

“Well I’m not going to be naked all the time,” John said turning around with a hand on his hip. 

Hyperion’s brows rose at the sudden confrontation, bond echoing his face with a small startle. As John stood there his face relaxed again, but the mood tensed slightly as a new picture flowed across to John. Many dragons, colony, family, curled together, bodily contact, winter snow circling a large hot pile; the picture changed seasons and the pile dispersed, groups and pairs lazing on each other still, bodily contact, family, contact, contact, contact. John shook his head as the picture became more intense and that feeling of touch starvation hammered at him. Hyperion quickly backed off, an apologetic feeling softly washing across John’s mind as John rubbed his temples with index finger and thumb. Hyperion’s nose gently pushed at John, the guilt at having done whatever it was he had done coloring the bond. 

“S’okay Hyperion, I’m fine, that was just a little much,” John mumbled, raising a hand to the snout in front of him. “I’m still learning about you lot, I’m sorry if I did something wrong.” Hyperion pressed at him a little more, the feeling of ‘sorry, I’m sorry,’ continuing under a little note to rest. John listened and simply leaned forward, laying his upper body over Hyperion’s nose, as much skin touching scales as there could be without John taking his clothes off and getting his feet involved. ‘This’ was the simple happy feeling that accompanied the motion; John was doing exactly what Hyperion had wanted, just contact. John was his family, his ‘colony’, if John was interpreting that right, on a basic level Hyperion just wanted a hug or a cuddle now and then. From what John gathered, while Victor had loved Hyperion he hadn’t been a very touchy-feely person with him. they’d had contact but not nearly as much as Hyperion needed, at least not recently. _Christ, I need to read up on this,_ John thought as he laid against Hyperion’s comfortably warm nose.

“Those things you show me, I’ll be able to ‘see’ them easier with time, yeah?” John asked as they sat together. Hyperion responded with a positive and a tiny nod of his head, not wanting to jostle John too much. John smiled and sighed, “good.”

Eventually John’s shoulder began to hurt from the slumped position and Hyperion helped him move, allowing John to brace himself on Hyperion’s body on as he stood and climbed onto the mat. John curled into a crook at the base of Hyperion’s neck, lying pressed against him near his heart.

They lay together for a while like that, not sleeping, just resting quietly. Hyperion carefully shared little snippets of pictures from his memories, nothing too intense or demanding on John’s mind, just simple memories to try and show John what it had been like before him. John saw Victor as a teen, filing a not-yet-flighted Hyperion’s claws after reprimanding him; Hyperion had been scratching furniture and walls alike because it felt so good to do it. The discovery of how amazing the texture of a palm tree felt scraping against shedding skin. Victor bought flowers; they smelled funny; little Hyperion destroyed them, burned the smelly things he didn’t like Victor disciplined him and replaced them with different plants. Victor failing to placate Hyperion as a hatchling, when his first veterinarian came, forced medicine when he got sick, small and still fragile, runty, and in need of some help at the start of his life. The first flight, the exhilaration of leaving the ground for a moment, wings finally big enough, strong enough, pushing air frantically grabbing for the sky... 

John asked him, “please, no flying stories just yet.” Hyperion conceded, undoubtedly feeling the miniscule twinges of anxiety the thought of flying instilled in John. The memories were so much clearer for John than they had been the night before, and Hyperion was willing to share so much more: meeting other dragons and their riders more colony members to his young mind. Visiting a wild colony on an assignment for the first time. Being fitted for his harness, and fitted again and again as he grew. Molly’s first visit as his new vet, cowering, hissing. So much for getting up and exploring the nooks and crannies of Hyperion’s home, John thought. He was content and comfortable to lay right where he was and absorb the picture memories.

Before John knew it there was a knock at the door and he heard the light creak of it opening at the far end of the room. 

“Dr Watson! Food delivery for Hyperion!” called a man’s voice. Hyperion’s head shot up, the bond instantly flooding with hunger. John was jolted out of the bonding stupor by the sudden single-minded surge of ‘food!’. Hyperion waited impatiently for John to move before he stiffly tucked his legs under himself and rolled his body upright for the first time since he’d laid down the day before. 

“Easy, you don’t want to tear any stitches again,” John reminded calmly, looking to the man, now standing just inside the door, with no food in sight. 

John patted Hyperion’s foreleg, “stay here,” he told him, grabbing his discarded cane quickly when he felt the flare of shared pain in his leg. As John hobbled his way towards the steward he heard shuffling behind him and turned back with a sharp look to see Hyperion shakily trying to raise himself to just sitting on his hindquarters. “I said stay put, just for a moment. I’ll be right back,” John said. Hyperion returned to his pose on his belly, his long tail twitching away while his finger-like talons fidgeted with the edge of his mat, and his long dark tongue flicked out to scent the air for his food. The bond buzzed with a pleading, ‘I’m hungry feed me!’ so strong John’s own stomach grumbled at him. 

The man at the door smiled and met him at least partway there. He was a tall one, like a leaner, paler, ginger version of Kandahar’s Master Omar. “Hello, Dr Watson. I was told I’d be showing you how to feed Hyperion,” he said, a great grin at the prospect covering his lightly fuzzed face.

“Yeah, nothing too bad I hope?” John asked, his brain suddenly conjuring up a live animal being led in on a rope for Hyperion to tear apart. 

“No! It’s actually pretty fun if you let it, a little messy maybe, but hey, a little bull blood never hurt anyone, just don’t wear your good riding gear or anything while you’re feeding him.” He chuckled. “Now, I’m Thomas, most everyone just calls me Tom ‘round here. I’m one of the feeding assistants for Master Lestrade’s division, so, unless you decide to take over all Hyperion’s feedings like Victor’d do, you’ll be seeing me or one of my mates around every few days or so. Glad to meet you.” He extended a hand to shake.

“John’s fine, John Watson,” John replied, propping his cane against his hip in order to take the offered hand. 

“Good to meet you, John,” Tom was strong as an ox if his grip was anything to go by. He turned to go back to the doors while John flexed his hand quickly before taking up his cane and limping after him. Hyperion’s mind was awash with hunger, prods of concerned curiosity ‘is it here yet?’ scattered across the bond. Tom pressed a button to open the larger doors enough to push in a large covered cart, then closed them behind him. John could see Hyperion physically leaning towards them, obeying John’s order to stay put with extreme reluctance.

“Usually it’s just straight up beef for Hyperion, a couple chickens now and then, maybe some pork or mutton, his type’ll eat just about anything you throw at them, honestly, regular garbage disposals almost. For now though he’s on a diet with supplements, red meat and some powder and pills,” he said, pushing the cart slow enough around Hyperion’s sand pit for John to keep up. 

“So, how is this going to work? Would it be better if I got him up on his feet or can he stay sitting down?” Tom stopped some distance away from Hyperion and looked at John appraisingly before looking at the impatiently waiting Hyperion. 

“I think sitting will work for today, and with that arm I think it’s better you just let me feed him this time. You can give him some of the smaller pieces if you feel up to it.” He scratched his beard stubble thoughtfully, with a concerned tilt to his brows.

“Is there a problem if I can’t feed him myself?” John asked, seeing the minor deflation in Tom’s cheerful demeanor. He instantly thought about what Lestrade had said, about hatchlings bonding with their riders over the first meal, was that a step he missed that was crucial to the bond solidifying?

“Oh, no, its not a problem--” Tom replied. He paused. “Just, since you’re bonding, it seemed like a good idea to have you as hands-on as possible, but no one told me you were hurt, too,” Tom explained.  
“Good, that’s good,” John said. “You had me worried that I was missing out on some kind of major bonding ritual.” Tom laughed his mood brightening again quickly. 

“No! Its just something nice to share. Every rider is different. Victor did all the feeding for Hyperion; I rarely ever saw him except for feedings like this, where supplements and medical treatments were involved.” Tom patted a hand on the lid of the cart. “Others like being involved sometimes but are fine with letting me have control and feed their dragons for them. Everyone’s got preferences and reasons. I just thought you’d like to give it a shot, see what you prefer. Usually the newly-bonded kids like being all tough and possessive and want to handle all the feedings forever, only to back off as they get older. Couldn’t begin to guess what you’d be like, going by what little scattered talk’s going around the Aerie about you.”

“There’s talk about me?” John caught the comment.

“Well yeah, its not every day we have a field-bonded rider come in. Is it true you bonded with him in the middle of a firefight? Lots of different stories going around about the circumstances. There’s a few who think you bonded mid-flight after Victor picked you up and he died in the saddle, that one I know is rubbish --” A loud snort and juddering grunt from Hyperion drew both of their attentions back to the large sandy dragon fidgeting away, eyeing the cart he knew contained his food. 

“Oh, sorry Hyperion,” Tom said, hurrying around to the sides of the cart to the clasps for the covering. 

It sounded like people were talking about him and Hyperion as though they were heroes or something. Hopefully nothing bad would come from that talking. A little gossip was one thing, but if something started and blew out of proportion, before John joined the Aerie properly. “Yeah, total rubbish,” John replied, “It wasn’t exactly a firefight either though, sorry, we were between skirmishes sort of. One of my men spotted Victor’s parachute in the bush and turned out Hyperion wasn’t far away. Honestly, it was an accident, never heard of any of this bonding stuff before. We were ambushed after the bonding, though, that’s how I got hurt, if anyone was wondering,” John said, looking over to Hyperion, who was making the bond veritably buzz with eager anticipation. 

Tom glanced over at John. “Well, I’ll pass that along, no use letting stray rumors get blown out of proportion.” He finally pulled the lid off the food and the bond suddenly spiked again with hunger. Hyperion physically gripped the edge of his mat in an attempt to restrain himself, all the while his tongue flickered out to taste the new strong scent of raw meat on the air, his nostrils flared and pupils dilated at the prospect of a feed. Tom let out a low laugh when John’s stomach growled loudly in false hunger under the assault from Hyperion’s side of the bond. “You’ll be getting lunch soon too, but first we feed the dragon before he drives himself ‘round the twist.” 

In the bin of the cart there were a couple of canisters in a bucket along with a rather hefty looking pile of bleeding red meat. Remembering Sally’s words from the previous day’s dinner, John saw clearly that it was fit for humans. Some of the large hunks did retain the bones. A large knife sat in the bucket with the canisters and Tom unsheathed it to reveal what looked like an almost-new sharp carving knife.

“Now, since Hyperion’s got supplements he needs to take we’re gonna put them in his food. We could just throw them down his throat, but he could easily chuck them back that way. At least in his meat he’ll be less inclined to regurgitate them. Hyperion’s never been good with taking medicine so we get creative.” The pill he pulled out of the can was genuinely the largest John had seen in his life, bigger around than his fist and about the length of his forearm. It looked small enough for Hyperion to comfortably swallow, but the size of it was simply a bit of a shocker.

“How many of those does he get?” John asked curiously, wondering at the contents of the large white pill. 

“This’d be painkillers actually. He gets three of these with his food. They should last him the rest of the day so he can get up and move if he wants to.” Tom cut a deep slash in a nearby hunk of meat, pushed the pill into the gash, and pressed the edges closed around it. He put the knife down to heft the chunk out of the cart, leaving a light bloody trail behind. John followed close by. 

“Told you it can get messy,” Tom said indicating the watery blood smeared on his hands and the apron that covered his knees. “The fun part is how he gets it. Sure, I could just give him the cart and let him gorge on it, but that might also make him sick eating too fast or lose a pill he needs to take. Hyperion here is a nice one so I could probably just plop it in his mouth, but where’s the fun in that? Tom grinned at John, and then said, “Hyperion, catch!” Tom tossed the chunk into the air towards Hyperion, who bolted for it instantly, his long neck swiftly struck out. His open teeth snatched the piece right out of the air. Hyperion tossed his head to get the piece down out of his teeth and into the back of his throat;John could watch the small bulge of it slowly slide down his neck. Joy and satisfaction echoed all around the bond, the eagerness for more sharing space with the brief satiation. 

“And lather rinse repeat, basically, for those pills,” Tom said. Next Tom loaded chunks of meat with a rainbow of vitamin supplements, cleverly tucking the capsules into the spaces between rib bones or the squishy marrow of shanks. 

Tom gave John a smaller piece to throw one-handed. Getting to feed Hyperion himself made John feel an odd surge of pride. It wasn’t like he had gone out and slaughtered and butchered the meat himself; if anything, Tom was doing the lion’s share of the feeding, but throwing the first couple of vitamin-riddled steaks to his dragon made his heart swell. Hyperion, even injured, was extremely good at catching his ‘prey’ out of the air and missed nothing from his stationary position on his mattress. The happiness he got from just being able to eat was definitely infectious. 

It was as John lobbed a chunk of ribs like a frisbee, watching those great jaws close on the hurled piece, that it occurred to him to think about how close he stood to an enormous predator focused on eating. John stepped back, his affection for Hyperion unable to overshadow the sudden realization that a feeding accident could be fatal. “Er,” he said to Tom, “he wouldn’t bite me, would he, like by accident or anything?” John kept his voice low, his red-stained hand on the edge of the bin for support. Hyperion stopped mid-swallow at the feel of John’s anxiety. His pupils looked wider, Hyperion pushed concern across the bond. 

Tom looked up from where he was bent pushing the last of the vitamin capsules into a long slab. “He would never bite you,” Tom said simply. “Not even by accident. He’s aware of where you are at all times. To hurt you would be to hurt himself.” He reached across the cart to clap a hand on John’s bare shoulder before realizing how bloody he was and seeming to think better of it. “Nothing to worry about. You’d have been more likely to get hurt when he was a baby; they’re more clumsy, trying to learn how to control all those long little limbs.” He gave John a smile, leaning back when John returned the smile, feeling a little less nervous after the assurances. 

“Here, we’re going to hand-feed him this next piece; powder doesn’t fly well,” He took a wide chunk of ribs from a side of beef in both arms, hefted it out of the cart, and set it on the stone floor. He took a third container out and inside was a light yellowish powder. He scored the meat and then dumped the whole container into the bowl of the ribs. Tom rubbed the powder mound down into the slices and across the rest of the slab, getting as much of it into the surface of the meat as possible. He waved John over. 

“You take this end with your good arm and I’ll take the other end, and we’ll feed him the last of his medicine,” Tom instructed, lifting the whole chunk and letting John take the smaller side where the ribs narrowed down. John looked at the powder sticking to his hand as he got a good grip.

“What is this stuff?” he asked.

“Calcium powder mostly, with a few more vitamins mixed in. Dr Hooper’s blend for the dragons. They all get this in their diet, Hyperion’s just getting a bit extra for now. Easier to give it all at once.” Tom led John towards Hyperion with their load between them. Hyperion didn’t snap at the offering; the hunger crossing the bond had lessened significantly and in the presence of John’s brief bout of nerves Hyperion appeared to be moving extra slowly just for him, gold eye trained on John rather than the biggest chunk of meat in the meal. 

Hyperion brought his muzzle down carefully closer to them, resting his jaw on the floor as he opened his mouth. With Tom’s guidance, John hefted the end up onto his shoulder, smearing the side of his head with a gritty mix of fat, blood, and fine powder. He managed to get his elbow on Hyperion’s lower lip and used his hand to lift the meat off his shoulder and awkwardly beyond the teeth; pressing his face into the hot ivory white of a fang momentarily before freeing his arm from between them and moving away. Hyperion remained still the entire time. 

“Hyperion, eat up,” Tom called. Hyperion’s teeth closed and Tom let go of his end. Hyperion lifted and tossed the the powder-covered meat back like he had the other pieces. This swallow was accompanied by a scrunch of his face and a sour disgusted feeling rattling across John’s mind. John could see the clear outline of the whole slab sliding down Hyperion’s throat and was mildly fascinated for a moment by how the scales and skin beneath stretched apart as the food passed downwards. Hyperion quickly swung away, though, abandoning the feeding for his water fountain, sucking down great gulps of water.

“Yeah, usually the small amounts they can’t taste it, but when we have to up the dosage they tend to do that afterwards,” Tom said, coming up beside John. “But you see, he wouldn’t hurt you ever during a feeding.” He scraped one of his grimy hands down the side of John’s face, trying to help rub off some of the crud from the meat. Unfortunately it was sort of matted into that side of his hair already, along with the sweat of being active for the first time in a while. 

After a long drink, Hyperion returned to finish his food. The rest of it was clean meat, no additions, just large white and red chunks of beef. John threw Hyperion small pieces until his shoulder started to feel sore. Tom fed Hyperion the rest of the meal. Hyperion happily caught any extra little bits thrown with relish before he set about using his forked tongue to lick at the criss crossing of blood trails littering the floor.

Tom cleaned up what Hyperion missed or couldn’t reach, showing John the cabinet storing cleaning supplies. He took a bucket and washed the blood towards the drain running around the circumference the central sand pit. Then Tom mopped and rinsed the smooth stone again. Just watching made John feel tired, but there were other riders who did this all on their own! _Surely not every day,_ John thought. 

“Tom, how often do we feed Hyperion?” John called, as Tom scrubbed his hands and face quickly at the fountain. 

“Two to three times a week when he at his most active,” Tom replied, returning to where John was leaning against the closed lid of the cart.

“Christ, all that three times a week.” No wonder every rider he’d seen so far appeared to be in such good shape: all of that on top of flying and performing the acrobatic maneuvers he’d seen over the battlefields, and god knows what else constituted being a dragon rider. No wonder riders let the feeding assistants take over the job sometimes.

“Oh, no; three times is when he’s really roaring busy and flying long distances with large loads for days in a row, things like that, lots of energy burned needs to be replaced quickly. No, no, right now, as inactive as he is, he gets one big full feeding a week with his supplements and then small snacks, like chickens, daily with his painkillers, and a small feeding on the weekend to tide him over. Feeding him three times a week right now, god, he’d be so fat he’d never be able to get off the ground when the time came.” He looked up at Hyperion, who was still bent, flickering his tongue over the floor, inspecting for stray blood splatters. “Doubt we’ll have him up beyond a couple feedings a week for a long time, honestly; Dr Hooper said he’d be recovering for a while.” 

“Yes, that’s what she told me. I’m in no rush, to tell the truth.” John wished he could take those last words back the moment they left his mouth. Tom turned to him. “Oh?”

“Well, um, well, er, not good to stress him and try to fly too soon, right?” John fumbled for any excuse that could work beyond, ‘I’m bloody terrified of leaving the ground on his back!’ 

Tom eyed him with an arched brow. “You know, there’s another bit of rumor going around says you’re afraid of flying,” he said. John could feel his face heating, how had they found that out?! 

“Y-yeah, that one’s true,” John said, burying his face in his hand to hide the redness he was sure stained his face, nothing could be done for the ears, though. 

Next thing he knew, Tom’s big arm was around John’s shoulders. “Hey, it’s not a big deal,” Tom said quietly. “I’m sure we can help you out, and you’ve got Hyperion himself too. Bet you’ve only flown regular passenger flights; I’ve been told those are nothing like flying with the dragon you’re bonded to.” Hyperion had felt John’s distress and the bond lit with comfort, ‘it will be okay’ and ‘you can do it’ reassurance. John pulled his hand away and looked over to see Hyperion paying attention to them rather than seeking out food smells. 

“He didn’t help much when we were flying here,” John murmured.

“Well, you weren’t properly bonded yet, and he was probably drugged into a stupor. But flying on a dragon’s back is nothing like being carried in one of those glorified shipping containers. There’s nothing like the feeling of sitting in a saddle between those wings and feeling the wind rush by. You riders have it lucky, you get the bonus of feeling what your dragon’s got going on in their head, too.” He pointed at John’s temple with a smile. 

“You’ve ridden outside of one of those boxes?” John asked.

“Sure have, my wife’s a rider. She’s on an assignment to the little Aerie up at Liverpool right now, but yeah, she’s taken me flying with her before.” John felt a shiver run up his spine at the thought of being even less protected during flight, without the box around him. He shrugged out from under Tom’s arm.

“I’m sorry, I think I’ll stay on the ground,” John said, grabbing his cane and limping away towards the water fountain.

“No one said you had to do it right now,” Tom said, following him, not taking the hint that John wanted to be done with the topic. “But you’ll have to take him up eventually; his kind are meant to fly. The Masters and the teachers will help you--”

“Look, Tom, I get it, I’m going to have to be his rider,” John jabbed his cane in Hyperion’s direction, “but I don’t for a moment enjoy that thought. You were born here, you’ve lived around these creatures your entire life! Me? I have avoided the sky since I was a kid. I got my orders to be flown out to Afghanistan and do you know what the first thing I did was?! I ran for the loo and vomited my lunch, because I read the words ‘assemble at the flight pad’!” 

John leaned against the edged of the fountain, breathing hard, and scrubbed a hand over his face only to rub bloody gunk down his forehead, nose, and chin, as if he wasn’t grimy enough. He sighed, looking at that hand, and realized that the sudden swell of anger he felt was being washed away by the bond. Hyperion sent strong waves of concern across tinged with comfort and his own restrained smidge of sadness at the confession that his rider didn’t want to fly with him. “This whole bond thing… I, god, I just love him… but flying…” John was struggling with it now, the conflict of interests, he’d been putting it off and skirting around the topic; whenever it came up in his thoughts he’d veered away from it. John spun and quickly dunked his hand in the cool fountain, splashing the water on his face, trying to clean the muck off, sputtering and gasping as the coolness grounded his whirling thoughts while he rested an elbow of the fountain rim.

“John,” Tom said, picking up John’s cane from where it had fallen. “Take a few breaths, try to calm yourself.” He propped the now dirtied cane next to John.

“Sorry, I-I didn’t mean that, what I said there I-” Tom put a hand back on John’s shoulder, and John felt immediately guilty for flinching at the contact. 

“You’re not the first soldier to come back from war here, you know,” Tom told him, voice steady and calm. “I am sorry for causing you stress, especially during your bonding. Just breathe through it, calm down, don’t feel guilty. I understand you’re scared of something. I won’t take offense to anything you said; we all say dumb things when we’re scared.” Tom talked him down, John focusing on his breathing and the comfort flowing from Hyperion’s side of the bond. John turned back around to face him once his breathing evened and he didn’t feel quite as panicky.

Hyperion had brought his head down close, nearly nudging Tom away with his nose. “Sorry,” John said quietly. Tom leaned down to him.

“Don’t be. Let me tell you a secret.” He whispered, “I’ve had war veterans like you so bad they couldn’t feed their dragons, even with therapy. The blood, you see, they couldn’t stand to look at the blood and have it covering them. I’ve figured out how to get around it so they can share feedings with their dragons again like they want.” Tom smiled, backing away again, “If I can help them with their problems the others here at the Aerie can help with yours. Just give them a chance, alright?” John swallowed and nodded, starting to feel drained from the combined stresses of the feeding and his brief outburst. 

“Good man,” Tom said, still smiling. Hyperion finally nudged him away lightly and pushed his nose into John’s side, the contact helping to make him feel a little better. “You just hang onto him for a while and settle down.” Tom chuckled as John wrapped an arm over a nostril and leaned into his dragon. 

“Could you not tell the rest of the Aerie about this?” John asked quietly laying his head against smooth, warm, scales. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it, I’m not a prick. Talking about a veteran's issues behind his back is just plain low,” Tom replied seriously. “However, I will tell them the bit about you not being in a firefight when you found him; the guys in the cafeteria have been wanting to know something new about you since we heard about Hyperion coming back.” The smirk grew on his fuzzy face. That startled a bark of laughter from John.

“Sure. You can tell them that part,” John said, a note of tiredness coloring his voice as Hyperion continued to support him. 

Tom turned to go grab his cart and leave. As he maneuvered the bulky thing towards the door he called back, “I’ll see you two tomorrow for Hyperion’s painkillers, and his next meal’s on Saturday.”

John had lost track of his days completely. “What day is it today?” he asked in reply.

Tom chuckled, “It’s Wednesday. See you soon.” He waved good-bye and, with a quiet rattle of the doors opening and closing, he was gone.

John lay on Hyperion’s nose for a while after Tom had left, the bond swirling away at the back of his mind. Hyperion was trying to bowl him over with as much comfort as he could muster, making John feel calm and boneless where he lay, but alongside the comfort came jagged needles of hurt: Hyperion’s own hurt at John’s frightened admission. 

“I’m sorry, Hyperion,” John murmured, face pressed and sticking to the smooth scales between the dragon’s nostrils. The small, weary apology did little to soothe that hurt. John rubbed along a soft spot on a nostril, noticing that his quick splash in the fountain had barely touched the grime that slicked up that arm. He sighed and slowly peeled himself from Hyperion’s nose, the corner of his mouth twitching at the faint body print of sweat and drying blood he left behind. Hyperion continued to watch him even as his tongue slid out and curled back up over his nose to flick at the blood. 

Deciding another bath was in order along with a full change John just climbed into the fountain, clothes, sling, and all. He slowly scrubbed off the mess on his skin and in his hair, watching the water tinge red around him before being drained away to be replaced by fresh. Hyperion rested his chin on the edge next to him, the bond still wavering with concern and upset, leaving John to feel uneasy too. After sitting and soaking for a moment the clothes and sling came off. John tried to scrub at them as best he could with only one arm, with limited results, before he finally gave up and just slapped them over the edge of the fountain to dry out again. A sudden hot huff of air startled John into ducking down into the deeper side of the fountain, spinning to see Hyperion performing his drying trick on John’s clothes. John shuffled closer and helped in turning his pants and trousers over to dry on both sides.

“Thank you,” John said, standing and reaching out to pet Hyperion’s nose.

A knock came at the door mid-reach. The small door opened a crack, and a lady in kitchen uniform popped her head in. “Dr Watson! Dr Watson your lunch is here!” She called, stepping through with a lunch container in her hand and a drawstring pouch over her shoulder. The moment she caught sight of John her hand went to her eyes, “Oh! I am so sorry!” she cried. John ducked down again, hoping she hadn’t seen anything.

“No, no! Its alright, I’m covered,” John said, head and shoulders the only things out of the unfortunately clear water. Her fingers parted, peeking at him before determining it was safe and dropping her hand to hold the lunchbox with both arms. 

“I’m so sorry sir, er, your lunch…” She held up the box. 

“If you could just leave it over by the door, I’ll come get it,” John called, as Hyperion shifted his head and put himself between John and her. 

“Commander Donovan told me to deliver this bag with your lunch, Dr Watson,” She said, after a momentary silence.

“Thank you, for the meal and the gift.” John replied, putting his forehead down on the stone of the fountain, mortified as he fumbled for words. 

“You’re welcome, sir,” and with that he heard her leave. 

Hyperion moved away once she was gone. A small snort in the direction of the door and a possessive streak across the bond telling John that Hyperion disliked the woman making John feel embarrassed so soon after his recent panicky outburst. 

“It’s okay, Hyperion,” John told him as he clambered out of the water, still keeping his injured arm gingerly pinned to his side. Hyperion turned to him and instantly set about drying him off. 

John pulled the sling on again and his pants, leaving the still faintly bloodstained trousers. He only had the one sling; there were other, less stained, garments still in his bag. He limped to the door, picking up the items left behind, and realized that he was as far away from Hyperion as he’d been all day. Hyperion stared at him with a sad pang across the bond. “I’m not leaving,” John reassured him, “not for a few days still, and even then, I’ll come back,” John tried to push comfort back to Hyperion even feeling as frayed as his nerves felt after the panic; it hurt to feel the upset underlining everything that crossed the bond.

As John hobbled back Hyperion slowly rolled over onto his side, resuming his comfortable position, only this time with his back to the wall. With a full meal of food John could see a slight pudge to Hyperion’s belly he hadn’t had before. Setting his things down, he climbed up and put his hand to the soft white scales of Hyperion’s underbelly. Hyperion let out a small groan as John rubbed, gratitude and happiness sparking along the back of his mind. A small smile spread across John’s face.

“I’m sorry for upsetting you, Hyperion, so sorry…” He continued to stroke the wide scales that banded his belly, sliding fingers around the edges of them to touch the thin spots of velvety soft skin where the scales grew. “I-I’ll fly with you, I will,” John told him, gut clenching at the thought even as he said it. Hyperion’s head shifted, a golden yellow eye sliding open to look back at John. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like I hated you; I don’t. I don’t want to ever leave you. You just have to understand this is a thing that has terrified me since I was very little, even younger than Victor was when he got you.” John reasoned with him. Hyperion shuffled his long neck into a tighter curve, slowly moving closer and nudging at John, pushing him a little further down his belly, ‘keep talking, I’m paying attention’ and ‘scratch over there, itch’ popping across into John’s head. He huffed a little laugh, reaching up and resuming his rubbing and scratching a little farther along Hyperion’s stomach. 

“I’m sure you’ve been scared of things before; you’re not fearless, I know. You’re afraid of Molly, or at least her needles--” A flash of the evening John had met Hyperion, but from a whole different, taller, perspective made John pause. Acute fear, extreme pain, sadness, confusion, all swirled together quickly across John’s brain in the brief flick of that picture, men surrounding them, many weapons, a fierce surge of fear-laden protectiveness doused everything else when John hit the ground. Then the memory, just as suddenly as it had appeared, vanished, but the momentary glance was enough to convey how much Hyperion had been scared for his new rider’s life. John stopped his scratching and leaned heavily against the scales in front of him. 

“Hyperion.” He turned and grabbed Hyperion’s snout again, seeking the comfort of bond and warm breath. John barely remembered that night; the moments around being shot were hazy; to be given them so clearly by Hyperion was a bit of a shock to say the least. Hyperion pushed John up further onto his nose and carefully lifted him just enough to move him up to rest at the base of his throat his favorite spot near the dragon’s heart. John instantly clutched at the scales with his one good hand as he felt his feet leaving the ground and sat when he was placed where Hyperion wanted him. ‘I forgive you, its alright, I understand,’ a multitude of feelings of comfort rippled across John’s mind as Hyperion turned his head away and reached for the edges of the matt. He returned with the plastic lunch box delicately gripped between his teeth. A picture of a young Victor smiling happy around a mouthful of food flickered across his mind, along with ‘eat’ and a subtle feeling of satiation and happiness. John understood: eating made Victor’s mood better so Hyperion was giving John his lunch.

John took the box while sending gratitude through the bond and settled in to eat. The warm food did improve his mood, and as if the kitchen had read his mind from afar they had sent a thermos full of tea. The hot familiar taste of the tea helped immensely. John downed both drink and food quickly. Hyperion nudged at John’s feet when he was finished, concern twining with hopefulness over the bond ‘you’re okay?’ John smiled for him. 

“I’m alright, Hyperion,” he said, pushing lightly back at Hyperion’s jaw with a bare foot. In that moment John realized how he must look should any outsider come in. A grown man, sitting in his pants, leaned up against a dragon, eating lunch. That thought made him laugh, covering his face as he tried to hold it in. Hyperion had a moment of confusion before he caught onto the humor and happiness the odd situation brought John and he chuckled in his own way, echoing that good feeling back and lightening John’s spirits further.

It was some time afterwards that John decided to pull on clean trousers, simply for the sake of anyone who may visit, or the kitchen staff, whomever came first. He then remembered the other package that had been left with his lunch. John sat at the edge of the mattress as he pulled open the drawstrings on the bag to reveal a small stack of books with a letter folded and taped to one of them. The message was from Sally. “Dear John, These are the texts that Lestrade requested for you to read during your bonding. Most of the knowledge contained in these books is beginner level education for our newest nestlings. Please do not be offended by their simplicity; we only think it best to start at the very beginning. We do not doubt that you will learn quickly. Do not rush. We do not expect you to finish these before your bonding is over. We only hope that what is in these books will help you learn a little more about Hyperion.” John glanced at the books, all fairly small and simple-looking with the exception of a larger tome titled ‘Dragons of the World’. The letter continued on with a P.S.: “Sorry neither I or Lestrade could deliver these personally. We will most likely see you again at the end of your bonding. Peaceful bonding. 5th Division Commander Sally Donovan.” 

John folded the letter and put it between the books before he reached for the biggest one. The book was full of pictures and snippets of facts about the dragons on the pages and a little red bookmark ribbon stuck out; the book opened right to a two-page spread of a large picture of a mottled brownish blue dragon on a white background that looked a bit like Hyperion. At the top of the page in text bigger than anything else on the pages read ‘RIDGEBACK’ John flipped forward to find at least a dozen more pages dedicated just to this one entry, before coming back to the title. 

“One of the most prolific species of rideable dragon in the European continent, the Lesser Ridgeback (pictured) has become the standard breed in most European countries for its typically favorable temperament and morphological diversity.” John read in a little note box next to the big picture. “While other local breeds are still present in Aeries across the continent, as well as other species of dragons altogether, the Lesser remains popular overall.” John looked from the page to Hyperion and back a few times, holding it up in front of Hyperion for comparison.

“Hyperion, this what you are, right?” John asked, and Hyperion opened his eyes and shifted to look. A resounding ‘Yes’ thundered over John’s mind accompanied by joy, joy at John’s interest in learning about him. 

The dragon in the picture did look a lot like Hyperion once John got past the radically different coloring. The crown of horns on the back of his head had differences: example pictures of other Lesser Ridgebacks had an outwards curve to them, whereas Hyperion’s stuck out as straight from his head as arrows. He did have the small ridge of saw-toothed spikes that the book said his breed was named for, nonexistent in the shoulders but very prominent along the rump and midway down his tail. Hyperion’s tail was longer than the depicted ones, too; little things made him unique, most likely from his breeding.

Hyperion’s breed could come in every color under the sun it seemed, from the more common muddy blue on the biggest picture to uncommon colorings including a ruddy nearly purple color and a very interesting coppery green. Hyperion’s coloring must have been on the uncommon side as well, because none of the examples looked like him. A couple of brown colorations got close but were much darker than Hyperion’s sandy tan, and the patchy gold in his scales were an extreme rarity. 

John left the ribbon marking those pages and continued to flip through the book. He’d had no idea how many different kinds of dragons there were, whole different species and breeds. John remembered names that had been mentioned the day before, like Aidan, the albino ridgeback, but there were many others in the book: Broadwing, Flametongue, Broad-Crested, Skystreak, HillPerch, Greater... so many breeds all across Europe in general that there was no telling what kind Aidan was, and so he had to give up the search there for the moment. Then there were ‘hummers’ whatever those were. He didn’t come across anything called ‘hummer’ there was a whole separate section for species called ‘hummingbird dragons’ and ‘faerie dragons’. Dragons ranging from the size of an incredibly large dog to a few photographed as small as big parrots and just as colorful. And the things they called Nordics, those were another species again as well.

“Christ,” John murmured, paging through the book and finding a new world within its pages. Miniature dragons both bred for their size and not, new species that hadn’t been discovered until very recently, dragons that had wings but didn’t fly, beautiful creatures for nearly every terrain on the planet and in almost every color imaginable. White dragons of the Gobi Desert with natural silver in their scales. Pitch black snake-like dragons with neon markings and stubby legs from the jungles of Nepal. Over in the Americas, metallic copper colored scales striped and spotted the hides of bulky, massive-winged, mountain breeds a little smaller than Hyperion.

John looked up with wide eyes when Hyperion nudged his shoulder with his snout and a gentle prod of concern. John looked up at the now familiar face from the book of new and strange ones. “There are so many of you,” he said dumbly, a little overwhelmed. He’d been so focused on the ground all his life he’d never noticed these sort of differences; he’d only known they came in size massive to giant like Hyperion and the Nordics. God, how many dragons had he seen on the battlefield, strewn dead across it, that were different breeds from different countries? They’d all just been lumped as ‘dragons’ in his mind, and they hadn’t had names other than ‘big black thing’ or ‘skinny blue firebreathing one’. 

“I think I’ve had enough for the moment,” John said, closing the book and setting it to the side. He needed to sit and absorb what he’d read for a bit, too much doing in one day almost after a few long weeks of inactivity. _Just relax and bond for now, come back to it later,_ John reasoned, going back to his favorite spot in the shelter of a shoulder, near Hyperion’s heartbeat. 

The rest of that first full day of bonding drifted by quietly, John comfortable under the warm tent of Hyperion’s drooping left wing. He dozed off and on along with Hyperion, who was happy that John was relaxed again. John finally rose in the evening to get some water and, as he looked at Hyperion, remembered what Molly had said about getting him up to walk around and to take his bandages off. 

“We need to get you up for a bit,” John told the lazily dozing dragon. Hyperion stirred at the announcement, hefting himself up into sitting position, blinking down at John. John cleaned off his cane which was still propped against the fountain, handle covered in grime. He had a feeling he’d be needing it, especially after this. 

“Come on, you need to walk a little, get those muscles and joints moving some every day, like Dr Hooper said,” John told him. When scepticism at actually walking anywhere crossed the bond John sighed. “Just give me three laps around the room, that’s all, if you feel like you can do more after that we’ll try, and if you’re really in agony we can stop early.” John bargained. 

Hyperion sighed back at him, but he shakily pushed up onto his feet, painkillers doing their job of dulling the pain well since John only felt the dull throb in his leg and almost nothing in his good shoulder. Hyperion slowly limped after John through the initial stiffness of getting up and followed him in his laps, John limping along ahead of him with his cane, laying on encouragements all the way.

Five laps later Hyperion caved, and despite John’s praise he treaded across the as yet untouched sand to go back to his mattress where he went down quickly. John grinned at the accomplishment, and pushed as big a wave of pride at Hyperion as he could muster. “Good boy.”

Dinner came shortly after, and Hyperion, flopped and full as he was, didn’t try to beg for any of his sausage and onions. John’s last act before the sun went down was to meet with his therapist; she ran him through his exercises and seemed pleased with his progress. She helped him remove Hyperion’s bandages like Molly had instructed before leaving. The sun slipped away, leaving a quiet night to take over and with Hyperion settled back down and comfortable with his wounds bared to air out, John fell asleep, curled against Hyperion’s warm neck. No surprise tall figures in the halls that night.

The rest of the bonding carried on fairly quietly. The next day, breakfast woke John again and Hyperion woke early enough to sit and ‘talk’ his thoughts, his feelings and curiosities flowing over John’s mind as he ate. John spoke to him plenty, still much more used to using his words to speak and get his point across, much easier than speaking with his mind. The bond continued to strengthen. It was as if while they slept their minds had grown closer, making it so much easier for John to feel the bond and get the images and memories from Hyperion. 

That day had been spent exploring Hyperion’s home, searching through cabinets and chests and inspecting the plant-surrounded sofa under the awning. The cabinets by the workbenches held loads of tools and parts that looked to John like they probably belonged to Hyperion’s harness. Another that he thought would only be a sort of wardrobe actually extended into the wall and was more of a shed, full of large, shiny and colorful dragon-sized toys. A massive golden ball a little taller than John and made of thick rubber took up a large portion of the space. 

Once John discovered it, Hyperion relayed memories, loads of happiness. The ball had been his since he had been small, and caused a flood of memories: a hatchling Hyperion being bowled over by it, latching onto a side and rolling; then even bigger and finally being able to pick it up and toss it; more recently at his current size, picking the ball up in both forepaws and playing with it; the shiny golden coloration dulled with each memory, being scratched away to reveal scraped patches of the dark grey rubber beneath. Every so often the ball would be taken away and its shine would return. In its current state it looked rather well scraped up and as much as Hyperion wanted to pitch it around a bit, neither of them were in any state to play. There were colorful hoops wrapped in metallic painted leather with shiny tassels and baubles on them. Victor had kept a good variety of toys and Hyperion seemed perfectly happy to share his memories of the times Victor had played with him.

John’s next find answered many questions he had about Hyperion’s origins. In an alcove, well protected against the elements, below the giant tapestry emblazoned with Hyperion’s name, was a shrine. That’s the best word John could use to describe it. The cabinet was beautiful, made of a dark almost ebony colored wood, inlaid with light colored dragons facing each other when both the doors were shut. The handles, made of the same light colored wood, formed the division’s caduceus symbol on its shield. On the inside a multitude of photos had been stuck to the walls and the insides of the doors. There were shelves that held a handful of trophies, badges, and ribbons, marks of merit for tournaments or accomplishments. 

An ancient-looking polaroid picture caught his eye where it was taped to the center of the back wall. It was obviously Hyperion’s first photo.The notes on the back of the photo indicated that Hyperion had only been a handful of days old, the photo taken just after Victor had bonded to him. Hyperion had been four feet tall at the shoulder when he hatched ‘kind of runty but that’s okay’ had been in the note. Hyperion had hatched March 1987, looking all scrawny and new and a darker, muddier brown; he’d lightened and showed his gold much better with age. 

“You’re 23?” John called back at Hyperion from the little alcove. He responded with an affirmative. “You’re pretty young huh?” That garnered an indignant snort from Hyperion who promptly sent John a startling mental image of a pair of rabbits mating then another flicked by of just a single rabbit. John cocked an eyebrow, _what does that mean?_ he thought. Pride, strength, bigness, aging, a whirl of all sorts of varying feelings and concepts spun across the bond, trying to convey what Hyperion wanted, a complex idea, but the running theme was getting bigger, getting older, and then the image of animals fucking thrown into the mix. “Mature! You are mature at 23, or maybe a little younger I guess,” John finally figured it out with an enthusiastic ‘yes’ wiping the mess from the bond. 

“You can mate. Or, you have a mate that’s gone?” John had no idea about the mating habits of dragons really, but before he could dwell on that thought Hyperion replied with the image of the single rabbit again and a bit of sadness underpinned with a very subtle but awkward note of lust, which John had never imagined he’d feel cross that bond. “No mate then, but you want one?” a resounding ‘yes.’ John looked back at the open cabinet of pictures, every picture was one of Hyperion and Victor in varying places and poses rarely was there anyone in the photos other than those two. He’d have to ask Lestrade or Sally about the mate situation.

The only pictures in the cabinet that didn’t contain Hyperion looked old. One labeled on the back with ‘Sire’ and the other had ‘Dam’ crossed out and replaced with ‘Mother’. Hyperion’s parents, a handsome dark yellowy-brown male, ‘with gold potential’ the photo said on the back, who looked like a much darker version of Hyperion with more green in his eyes. The mother was golden, shining scales covering her from tip to tail, Hyperion’s eyes were his mother’s bright golden yellow. He had much more gold on him than his father, but no where remotely near his mother’s pure gold. Deciding to leave questions about them for another time, John reverently closed and latched the cabinet doors and returned to looking around Hyperion’s home.

John’s only other visitor for the day, beyond the kitchen staff and his therapist, was Tom, who came around noon carrying a big sealed box. With not much fanfare he fed Hyperion his daily painkillers with some chickens, and washed his hands.

“I heard you gave one of the kitchen stewards a bit of a fright yesterday,” Tom said conversationally, a smirk in his voice.

“Oh, you heard about that already?” John replied ,feeling his face heat a little. He honestly hadn’t expected that encounter to travel so fast. 

“She was telling the girls at the table this morning, said ‘that new rider, he was bathing with his dragon and flashed me!’ the rest of the ladies got a real laugh out of it.” Tom affected a higher voice for the steward’s, laughing.

“I did not flash her, well not on purpose, she walked in on me at just the right moment,” John said. “Do other riders do that? Take baths in here I mean?” 

“Oh, they do, we know it happens, just usually no one catches them at it.” Tom chuckled eyeing John up and down pointedly, “some of the ladies are really looking forward to meeting you.” 

John coughed self-consciously, looking away, “Er, good to know.”

Tom left him and the rest of the day went by smoothly. After lunch John found a watering can and gardening things in a squat chest near the sofa. John took it upon himself to water the potted plants, most of which fortunately had tags in their pots: a few planters of black mondo which looked like a massive clump of black dyed grass with tiny white flowers growing out of it, some succulents nearly sprawling out of their containers, a couple of extremely bushy fuschia plants in large pots, carrying dark purple and red hanging flowers, a frankly massive aloe plant, and a short but long container full to overflowing of something called London Pride that was growing like mad all over its container and sprouting up loads of little pinkish white flower stalks. Everything else without tags were basically bushy pots full of grasses in varying shades of bluish or yellowish green and red. John just watered them for now; he’d need to find whoever had been taking care of them while Victor had been away. Never really one for gardening, John figured he’d have to pick it up if he wanted to keep Hyperion’s enclosure green beyond the large rubbing post palm trees. Hyperion had shared feelings and images of rubbing up against the sides of those trees, the satisfied joy of finally reaching an itch tingled through John at the memory, trailing down his spine and making him chuckle at Hyperion.

Another walk, this time with six laps, came before John’s dinner and afterwards Hyperion was so worn from his daily exercise he barely lifted his head to get a drink before falling asleep for the night. John picked up one of the less intimidating small books he’d been given and flipped through it as he leaned against Hyperion’s belly before he finally followed Hyperion into sleep.

The third day followed the same schedule: breakfast with Hyperion, lunch after Tom gave Hyperion his pills, then John’s therapist. She finally gave him the okay to take the sling off on orders not to do anything strenuous with that arm save the weights and stress balls she gave him for in between her visits. John was reluctant to move the arm for the most part, but did as he was told. 

The biggest revelation of that day was where and how Hyperion went to the bathroom in his enclosure. John had been thinking about maybe getting up and heading for the loo himself, when Hyperion hefted himself up off his matt. At first it worried John when Hyperion started walking into his sand pit. Hyperion still wasn’t allowed to sit or wallow in the stuff, his injuries still too open to the risk of getting packed with grit. All Hyperion did though was go to the far end near the door and began digging a hole in the sand, revealing a sort of stone ledge separating a portion of the sand away from the rest of the pool. He was like a cat with a litter box, John realized, averting his eyes in a strange urge to give the dragon privacy when he figured out what Hyperion was about to do. Hyperion did his business and quickly turned and mounded a small dune on top, cleanly covering any mess and smell. He came back to the mattress and flopped again. John had picked up one of his books and began looking for more information, weirdly enough, about a combination of dragon digestion and whether it was healthy that that was literally the only time he’d seen Hyperion do that in the last three days and how that partitioned off bit of sand would get cleaned out. Turned out all was fine and a question to Tom later revealed that there’d be a cleaner in on Sunday and not to worry, dragons were fastidiously clean creatures. In general it had just been a bit of a weird ‘never thought about that’ sort of moment in an overall calm day.

Hyperion was up for his walk before John even asked, and walked a few laps with John, cane in hand, limping along beside him before dinner. A visit from the therapist, some light reading about harnesses and repair, things not about flying, and then it was off sleep for John.

The fourth day went very much the same. The bond with Hyperion was blazing, the connection incredible; Hyperion could hold images up for him much longer, play snippets of memories like video across his mind with feelings and everything, and the emotions themselves were so much clearer and easier to interpret. John could feel him as though he was touching him from across the room, standing at the doorway. 

The fifth day, just before Hyperion’s walk, a large cardboard box arrived, addressed to the Aerie with ‘To: John “fuck off” Hamish Watson’ scrawled messily above the address. The package was from Harry; she had literally tossed every single one of John’s few belongings she’d been holding onto into the box in one drunken mess. Thrown in on top was a used phone. _Oh god they’re fighting again,_ John thought as he turned the slim black mobile over to see the word ‘Clara’ and a handful of x’s and o’s. He turned it on and immediately texted Harry, only to have the phone send it right back to itself. No texting then. He decided it best not to try and call her at her home, let her cool down for a few days and maybe sober up. 

Hyperion was sitting up getting ready for his walk when he noticed John rifling through the box still near the door. Hyperion stood and walked slowly up behind John. John could feel him coming behind him, could feel the curiosity brewing in Hyperion’s mind about what John was looking at. He gingerly sat right behind John and nosed at his back, trying to get John to move so he could see. John shifted for him. Most of what he’d uncovered was unimpressive: old civilian clothes, books, both medical texts and not, a stethoscope, a little red laptop with a dead battery and no charging cables, random bits from Harry’s medicine cabinet. Average bits from an average life. John sighed. At least she’d sent his things.

John left the box there by the door and, taking up his cane, started Hyperion’s daily walk. As they walked John explained to him who Harry was, Hyperion being curious for more about this sister thing. Victor had been an only child and Hyperion had been from a clutch of males he’d never really known, and the females in the Aerie weren’t family. 

Their evening continued on. John did eventually push the box over closer to his other belongings, and sleep came easily just as it had the previous nights, with calm unmemorable dreams that faded away upon waking.

John was awakened on Saturday not by an unfamiliar steward knocking at the door with breakfast, but by Sally knocking and calling for him. The sun was already up and lighting the room through the canvas ceiling. 

“Morning, John,” she said, as he sat up rubbing at his face, his bad shoulder extremely stiff as he got up. 

“Morning, Sally,” he replied, blinking at her. “Any reason for the early visit?” he asked, Hyperion stirring behind him and beginning to uncurl as he woke.

“Bonding’s over, I’m afraid. We gave you a couple extra days to get good and close to him, but now you’ve got to test it and separate for a bit, rejoin the rest of the Aerie.” Sally told him calmly. Hyperion’s eyes popped open at her statement. A large hot snort blew her tied back hair forward and she turned to look him in the face. “Hyperion, you know he has to go sometime, you’ve done this before, remember, with Victor?” Sally used a gentle voice with the dragon, trying to keep the moment calm, but John could feel a very clear rising anxiety at the back of his skull emanating from Hyperion, ‘don’t leave me alone please don’t leave me.’

Sally was right, though; John did have to leave Hyperion’s side eventually, that was the point of the bonding: to build a strong bond quickly so that the dragon wouldn’t be alone even if the rider wasn’t right by his side. John looked up at Hyperion’s startled eye. “I do have to go but I’ll come back, you know I will, and we’ve got this,” John said, knocking against his head with a small smile, pushing comfort and calm and safety across the bond to him to emphasize the point. John understood why Hyperion was so distressed. Having Victor die had been so traumatic; he wanted reassurance that his new rider wouldn’t perish as well. 

“He’ll be alright, and he can come right back tomorrow,” Sally said as John stood and hopped down from the mattress. Hyperion lunged forward in front of them, blocking with his neck and curling around the both of them; the calm John sent him getting overpowered by a level of distress John hadn’t felt since the initial flare when the bond began out in the scrub and sand.

John reached for Hyperion’s neck and felt the scales shaking. He looked back at Sally before he walked to Hyperion’s head. “Hyperion,” he started quietly, “hey, I’m going to be fine. Remember Kandahar, I told you I’d come back and I did, and we didn’t even have a good strong bond like we’ve got now. You can ‘talk’ to me wherever I go, and I’ll still be right here.” John patted the side of Hyperion’s head as high up as he could reach.

Hyperion didn’t seem too convinced and John could sense a similar parting to the first one he’d been forced to make in Kandahar. “I’ll leave some of my things here with you, will that help? Something that smells and reminds you of me?” John asked. A small nod with a tiny ‘yes’ floated across the bond. John smiled for him. “Okay. Now, I’ve got to go. If you get scared just give me a nudge, but I’m going to be alright and so will you,” he said. John reached up and gave Hyperion a hug, his wounded arm still aching and stinging as he moved it, but he needed it. Hyperion managed to get one arm partway over his nose and the other sprawled across the curve of his cheek but at least an attempt was made and it sure made John feel better. “Tom’s going to be by today for your feeding; be good for him, and don’t go getting into the sand. You’re not healed up enough for it with no bandages on, and remember to drink your water.”

“Come on, mother hen,” Sally called, She already had John’s duffle slung over a shoulder and was waiting for him next to his box at the door. John suddenly realized how he must have looked and straightened, finally taking a couple of rigid steps before he gave in and walked away. He could feel the bond absolutely roiling with sadness at the back of his mind. He went to the box of things from Harry and dug out a few of his more worn things: an old jacket, a few shirts, a pair of trousers. John laid them on the edge of the mattress for Hyperion, who had already curled away facing the wall. John knew Hyperion was trying to comfort himself, tell himself John was going to be okay, a thin mantra of hopeful ‘he’ll come back’ there on his end of the bond if John concentrated hard enough. The overwhelming upset, though, squashed anything else and as John turned and walked towards Sally he felt his eyes watering.

“Sorry,” he apologized once he reached her at the door, wiping at his eyes. Even though he knew what was causing it it still felt pathetic to be seen crying in front of what essentially was his commanding officer. 

“It’s alright. Like I told you before, we’ve seen this all before here at the Aerie, bonding when it’s first starting out makes even the toughest nestlings more emotional,” she said, opening the door and letting him step out first. She shoved his box of things out the door after him. A small open-topped jeep waited for them. Sally put his duffle and box in the back and ushered him into the passenger side. “You just keep the bond good and open, let him feel you out and communicate with him, you’ll both settle.” She started the engine and pulled out into the hall. “It’s just the final step to make sure you’re good and connected; if you can’t go anywhere in the Aerie without feeling that bond, we’ll put you back in with him for a little longer. Usually five days straight will do it, though, and you had some time before that too.” 

John didn’t feel like talking at the moment; the distress still radiating strongly along the bond made a hot clenching feeling form at the top of his stomach. John gripped the handle of his cane harder and dug a fist into the bottom of his ribcage where the heartsick feeling sat. 

The bond held strong as Sally drove slowly down the hall. The Aerie was as busy as it always seemed, a dragon being led out of its pit, a couple of feeders going by with their carts, others driving little golf carts or using bikes bound for farther distances across the Aerie, or simply walking. They quickly passed the public baths in the middle of the hall; John had used these a few times during the bonding process, since any farther than that would strain the bond. The midway point crossed, the rest of the pits along the hall passed quickly and they exited through a smaller set of gates at the other end. A short hallway connected to a whole new part of the Aerie John had never seen. A stretch of seemingly normal London road crossed in front of them; if the ground had been paved and the high walls had not been visible beyond the rooftops, he would have thought they’d left the Aerie entirely. But on either side rose flats, multistory buildings that looked like they’d be right at home lining any street outside the Aerie. A few people walked on the sidewalks like normal city folk would do; it looked as though John had been dropped into a quiet street. Some of the houses sported personal touches: flower boxes along windows, different colored doors, small things that added to the mundanity of the street. Sally turned and slowly drove up the road to the right and parked in front of an average-looking place with a black door sporting the letters ‘221b’. The ground floor was white with black fencing outside the first floor windows. The drapes were shut up as if no one lived there.

“This is your flat,” Sally said, her voice taking on clipped tones as she got out and began taking John’s things out for him. John, still mildly stunned by the normal-looking street inside the Aerie, finally managed to find his voice around the sad lump in his stomach. 

“Where’s 221a?” he asked, looking at the doors around the flat. One wasn’t numbered at all, only had a little red awning over the door, and the next simply continued on to 222. 

“This is flat 221, arrogant sod tacked the ‘b’ onto the door,” she grumped, stepping up to the unmarked door to the right of 221b and knocking. A strange crowing sort of noise came from the other side, as if someone was strangling a raven. The door opened and out stepped an older woman, shooing away whatever was making the racket beyond. “Mrs Hudson, Dr Watson is here to take his room, John, this is Mrs Hudson, your landlady.” 

“Oh! I’ve heard about you, so lovely to meet Sherlock’s new flatmate,” she said with a warm motherly smile. “He’s been in such a mood lately, all alone with the flat to himself,” she added to Sally, who appeared like she couldn’t give a toss what this Sherlock character was up to in the slightest. 

“I’ll go get your keys, wait right here.” Mrs Hudson opened the door and made shooing noises at a creature named ‘Angus’ before retreating inside. Upon her return she was less successful at keeping ‘Angus’ in. Angus was some kind of small dragon, one of the ones in the book that he’d missed, no doubt. The thing was bigger than a great dane and in its startling flurry of an appearance had managed to pin John against Sally’s jeep. “So sorry about him,” Mrs Hudson apologized. “Angus, leave the poor man alone.” She called to the whirling dervish of color that was Angus and the narrow grey head with piercing, nearly heliotrope, eyes on a weaving neck turned away. He calmed with a throaty croak in Mrs Hudson’s direction. The many-colored fans and frills flaring in apparent excitement to meet John folded away, lying flush to stoney grey scales. All tucked away and wings folded, if Angus curled up against one of the Aerie’s grey stone walls or in an alcove somewhere he’d probably camouflage well, until he opened his eyes, shockingly purple turned red around the pupils. 

Angus returned to Mrs Hudson, rubbing against her hip like a particularly oversized scaly cat before sitting with his head leaned against her arm. “You didn’t need all that fuss so soon after your bonding, he really is a good boy usually,” she said, patting Angus on the head. “Anyway, here are your keys, I’ll give you the grand tour,” Mrs Hudson added as John picked up his cane from where he’d dropped it. 

John was barely able to pay attention to her kind words, though, as the bond had come alive with new worry, John’s startle had reached Hyperion, proving that the bond had held but at the same time, stressed the dragon far away at the other end. John tried to project calm, ‘I’m alright,’ and attempted to project images like Hyperion did, trying to somehow encapsulate whatever Angus was and how he’d briefly upset John into a picture. The bond still writhed with fear and upset, only at lower levels, roiling at the back of his mind rather than demanding his full attention.

Mrs Hudson unlocked the door and Angus led the way in, sitting right next to a set of stairs. John followed her up the stairs, Sally bringing up the rear carrying John’s duffel. The inside looked as average as the outside: worn wooden stairs, nicely wallpapered walls, a door leading towards Mrs Hudson’s flat at the bottom of the stairs. At the top of the stairs the doors sat open and John entered his new flat. 

The living area he’d stepped into was a mess, with a riot of papers, books, and miscellaneous items littering every surface of the room. The overall impression was of a hurricane of things: objects covered a table set between the tall windows looking out on the street, multiple printers sat in the corners, a stuffed bat in a frame, glasses, a few pairs of things that looked like binoculars, what looked like a long thin fang stabbed into the mantle, a few patches of what looked like enormous shed skin littered about the floor. _Is that a cow’s skull with headphones?_ John thought as he turned to look at the room. A pair of mismatched chairs sat on either side of a fireplace, one empty, the other covered in a box of newspapers, a union jack pillow balanced precariously on top. The place is probably quite lovely and homey underneath it all, John told himself.

“He was in a bit of a strop before he left--” Mrs Hudson started, just as John said, “Well, a little cleaning up and this’d do nicely.” John shifted the box out of the armchair and flopped the pillow down. 

“You’ll have to take it up with Sherlock, dear, he gets a little touchy about his things being messed with,” she said. Sally, having taken his things upstairs, came back down. 

“Your room is upstairs for now; if you want punt the freak out of the room down here, be my guest,” she said looking, down the hall on the other side of the kitchen at a closed door. It was a mess as well in a whole different way; the room had practically been turned into a lab, with beakers, stands, test tubes, and various bits of equipment scattered across the counters, along with a full-sized microscope. 

“The bathroom’s down the hall to the left,” Mrs Hudson prompted, ignoring Sally’s rude comment. “If you need anything, just call, Dr Watson. If I don’t hear you, Angus will. Now, would you like some tea?” she asked as John shuffled around the kitchen, looking but not touching any of the equipment.

“John, please, and yes, tea would be wonderful, thank you,” John replied returning to the living room just as he saw Sally lugging his last box up the stairs. She came back before Mrs Hudson did. 

“That’s all of it, all moved in,” Sally told him, her voice friendly enough, but her face saying she’d rather not stick around as she looked around at the state of the place. 

“Thank you, Sally. Oh, and thanks for the books, certainly eye openers,” he said, gaining her attention from a beaker with a layer of green in the bottom of it. 

“No problem, Lestrade and I just thought it’d do you some good, get that initial shock out of the way. There’s loads more of course,” she added. 

“I figured, barely touched what you gave me as it is,” John replied awkwardly.

“Well, best be off, let you get settled in,” Sally said, moving towards the door. “You can come to breakfast in the cafeteria if you like, I doubt the freak’s stocked the flat.” 

“Why do you keep calling him that?” John asked, suddenly very curious to know what was it about this Sherlock that pissed her off.

“He’s a psychopath, hangs around dead things a little too much. There’s things not right about him. It makes me cringe sometimes thinking about the day when he might snap, when he’s killed someone, or a dragon.” Sally made an exaggerated shiver, her face grim. “You're better off avoiding him, and lock your door when you sleep.” 

John felt a chill up his spine, bad or good he couldn’t tell. “Could I get your number?” He heard himself asking. He dug his phone out to show her. “I got a new phone,” he added. She smiled, took it from him and entered both hers and Lestrade’s numbers. 

“You should be fine,” Sally tried to reassure with a joking tone, “he hasn’t killed anyone yet; Victor seemed to have figured out how to deal with him.” When she got no reply after handing John’s phone back she offered a forced chuckle before going quiet. “If you don’t have any problems with the bond tonight you will be meeting with the Masters tomorrow afternoon. Normally you would have long before any of this happened, but circumstances as they are, they decided to meet with you as soon as possible after your bonding.” Sally told John just as Mrs Hudson was returning up the stairs with the tea. 

Sally said her farewells and retreated down the stairs, leaving John in the messy flat with Hyperion worrying away in his head and Mrs Hudson puttering around in the kitchen with the tea. 

“Where’d Angus go?” John asked, for lack of anything better to say, as he propped his cane against the table next to the red armchair and sat.

“Oh, he’s downstairs watching the telly, likes to watch the morning news. Milk or sugar?” she asked, as if a relatively small dragon watching television was the most normal thing in the world. 

“Splash of milk, please. Likes to watch the news? Anything else?” John said with a chuckle, imagining Hyperion hunkered down trying to watch a tiny tv with one eye. The bond gave a fond ripple of acknowledgement at the thought, and John encouraged that positive with a little concentration of calm happiness of his own, ‘see, I’m okay’.

“You laugh now but you’ll see, dragons are inquisitive creatures, they like learning and seeing new things,” she scolded lightly, handing John a cup of caramel colored tea. “The big ones like yours get to go out and see the world all the time, but my Angus, his kind are short distance fliers at best, we don't go out of the Aerie much anymore so he gets to watch a lot of telly and reads in the library and visits with the big ones sometimes.” Mrs Hudson sat down at one of the chairs at the table instead of the squat grey one across from John with a violin and music stand hiding behind it. 

“So that’s as big as he gets? He’s not just a baby?” John asked, taking a sip of his tea. 

“He’s 60 this year dear, he’s no more a baby than yours is,” she replied kindly, sipping hers too.

They continued talking even after finishing their tea. Mrs Hudson had been in the London Aerie for a long time with Angus, with only a few brief stays at other Aeries. She mentioned one last station in Florida; they’d been there along with her then-husband one more time before returning to London and staying permanently. 

The longer they talked, the more John relaxed and felt at home in this strange yet comfortable flat, and the better it made Hyperion feel. John’s calm and comfort became Hyperion’s and helped lessen the dragon’s unease. The inkling of anxiety and worry remained, but every time John concentrated hard on the bond Hyperion seemed much more relaxed and would actually send John quavering hope ‘you’re alright?’ and curious ‘lady at the door is good?’ It helped settle John even further. 

Until John’s stomach grumbled, whether from Hyperion being hungry on feeding day or simply because he’d not eaten breakfast, John didn’t care, he had to get up and try to find something. It was then Mrs Hudson took her leave, wishing him well and reminding that she’d be just down the stairs if John was looking for something. 

John actually found some food in the cabinets, nowhere near well-stocked, but at least there were some canned soups and vegetables. The terrifying part though was that in the cabinets alongside the clearly labeled and sealed food were jars of things, some looked like specimens and others just jars filled with goo. A couple looked like they were just growing fuzzy things inside. John steered clear of those and picked up a can of soup for a sort of brunch. There was no bread in the bread box though there was a thankfully clean erlenmeyer flask tipped on its side shoved in instead. The real shock came when he opened the refrigerator door and promptly slammed it closed again. _That was not a hand! That was not a human hand on a plate in there!_ John’s mind screamed at him alerting Hyperion to worry again and John to try and placate him and his own nerves. He turned and opened the door again. Sure enough, there was a human hand covered in cling film sitting on a white plate on the bottom shelf of the fridge. John shut the door again.

“Mrs Hudson!” he called, leaning out the door to shout down the stairwell. After a moment of silence and a loud croak from Angus heard her call back up the stairs.

“Yes dear?” 

“There is a severed hand in my refrigerator!”

“Oh! Don’t fuss with it, that’d be one of Sherlock’s things!” she replied, as though it was perfectly average to find severed appendages in the flat. John cast a worried glance at the fridge when that seemed to be the end of the conversation. _Didn’t need anything out of there right now anyway._

John settled on soup and a pack of crackers and ended up eating them at the table in the the living room away from whatever substances were in the lab slash kitchen. Then John went upstairs to survey his bedroom. If either Victor or Sherlock had ever lived there they’d left no evidence of it: the room was bare except for a chair near the one window, a dresser and closet, and a small double bed in nearly military precise blue sheets with a pillow and side table. It all looked very barren compared to the chaotic rooms downstairs. John hadn’t seen the other bedroom, and he frankly wasn’t sure that he wanted to, but if it contained the man that created the mess it probably at least looked somewhat more lived-in than this little room. 

So John began unpacking, trying to make it more homey. He packed away his clothes in the dresser, set a few of his books and things on top of it, stuffed the picture of his army mates into the bottom of his sock drawer, and hung up anything else that needed hanging in the closet. 

John finally emptied his duffle and looked at the final piece he’d need to hide, his gun. He’d smuggled the Browning home hidden amongst his clothes and things and had not thought about it the entire time he’d been in the Aerie. There was no evidence that anything would happen to him within the Aerie’s walls that would even begin to warrant the keeping of the gun. He’d felt perfectly safe beside Hyperion, and yet John felt he needed it around now that his dragon was out of sight. He shoved it into the bottom drawer of the bedside table and covered it with an old shirt. 

When John went downstairs again to put his things in the bathroom he nearly startled himself in the mirror. He hadn’t shaved since before coming to the Aerie and now sported an extraordinarily scruffy amount of beard growth, not to mention that his hair was a disaster, growing halfway down his neck and beginning to get into his eyes, far too long. The bathroom seemed clean compared to the kitchen and John decided he’d take a proper shower for the first time in weeks, and shave. After, his face felt fresh and clean, even if his longer hair bothered him.

Once he sat down on the worn in sofa and began to really look at the rest of the room he didn’t stay down long; he felt he should at least tidy the place up, not remove or throw anything out but just neaten the stacks. He glanced upon papers with words like ‘venom’ and ‘corrosion’ or ‘suicide’ and ‘murder’ in them and decided it best not to read into whatever their contents were. Once John had cleaned as much as he could before he began to feel worried about upsetting his flatmate he took up his place on the sofa and relaxed, holding one of the squishy little exercise balls his therapist had given him. Hyperion was resting again on the other end of the bond, his anxiety for the most part gone, now that John was focusing on him and reassuring that he was perfectly fine in this odd new flat. 

Suddenly the same hunger John had felt a few days prior when Hyperion fed flared up again and Hyperion’s side of the bond soared with activity. It made John smile. Tom was there and Hyperion was ecstatic over the distraction of a meal. John laid back on the sofa and just concentrated on the bond and the feel of Hyperion feeding. If he focused hard enough he could tell when Tom threw and Hyperion wolfed his meat down, a phantom lump in his throat from food he wasn’t eating. It was definitely still strange, but the odd details transferring to John made him feel closer to Hyperion and he was happy for that.

Tom came and went and Hyperion settled again after walking to the door for Tom to feed him instead of sitting stationary on his mat. He’d irritated his leg and shoulder to the point John felt the keen sting in his leg and good shoulder. Mrs Hudson came upstairs with Angus to ask if he’d like to accompany her to lunch and John agreed since he needed to find the cafeteria until he could manage to stock the cabinets and fridge with actual food. 

“Does Angus eat here too?” John asked once they’d arrived and taken seats at a little square table along a wall. Angus looked up at him and gave a small croak.

“No, no, he gets fed at home. The butchers give me his food to keep in the freezer and thaw out through the week. He eats so often and his type have a bit more variation to their diets than the big ones like your Hyperion. No, he just likes to come with me, get out of the house you know,” she said casting a fond glance down at Angus who was curled up in a tight ball next to her shins. 

“You keep saying ‘his type.’ What is he, if you don’t mind me asking?” John asked after taking a bite out of a half unwrapped egg salad sandwich he’d picked up from the now open counter.

“I don’t mind, you’re still learning. He’s a South African Mountain Springer, a sort of Hummer variety from the east side of the African continent,” Mrs Hudson told him

“So that’s a Hummer?” John looked at Angus, who so far hadn’t made any sort of humming sound. If anything all his vocalizations so far sounded like a large, indignant raven. 

“Well, he’s in the family. Hummers are just what we call the little ones about his size, they’re the hummingbirds of dragon-kind. Course there are some even smaller than him in the books now, but they didn’t know about them when that nickname came about, and it's just sort of stuck,” she said “There are others here if you look for them,” Mrs Hudson added directing John to look out at the still fairly full late lunch crowd. John hadn’t noticed them before, but she was right: there were at least a handful of draconic faces tucked around the legs of their respective humans. Most of them looked very different from Angus though a few he spotted looked similar.

“But you can’t ride them; are you still called a dragon rider?” John asked, still scanning for more as if a kind of blindfold had been lifted from his eyes and he was beginning to see the scales he hadn’t seen before. 

“We’re keepers. Not all dragons are big as houses, the little ones have their uses too.” Mrs Hudson said, not so surreptitiously sneaking a last bit of chicken to Angus under the table. John spotted an absolutely tiny dragon curled up in the arms of a large young man at another table towards the center of the room, looking a bit like an elephant holding a chihuahua in the coil of its trunk. John pointed it out to Mrs Hudson, who filled him in that that was a hatchling and that the young man was actually just an older-looking teenager apprenticing as a butcher. Mrs Hudson, it turned out, knew a vast amount of Aerie gossip.

Before they left John asked her where he could get a haircut and buy some food. If the Aerie was anything like an army base there had to be a barber and commissary of some kind. She sent him with Angus to find it while she returned to her flat. Angus led John right to what he was looking for.

A while later he arrived home to the empty 221b, hair neatly trimmed into his prefered military shortness, with Angus carrying the few groceries and things he’d purchased. John had worried how he’d carry his shopping home with cane in one hand and still injured arm not quite ready for carrying much of anything. He’d been pleasantly surprised when the cashier had pulled out a bag with handles so that the little dragon could carry it. After Angus had set the stuff down on a clean bit of counter space John thanked him and gave him a pat on the head. “You tell Mrs Hudson I said thank you, too,” John said, scratching his fingers under one of the folded frills and noticing that Angus was actually fairly cool to the touch compared to Hyperion.

The little springer went back downstairs to his keeper and left John to put away his items. John continued to avoid the refrigerator, and had consciously bought things for dinner that didn’t need to share space with The Hand. He then spent the rest of the evening resting on the sofa focusing on Hyperion’s end of the bond. As dinner neared John felt him getting up and walking around like they had been doing every evening so far. John encouraged him from afar, closing his eyes and pushing good feelings across the bond, calm, happiness, praise, positive things to motivate him to walk a little further, exercise a little more each day. On a full belly though he didn’t go quite as far as the previous day or two but John didn’t mind; that he got up at all without him there in person made him happy and John conveyed that to him as well. 

Dinner was simple pasta and tomato sauce. He watched a little crap telly for the first time in a long while, not really paying much attention to it as the sun went down and the yellowish glow of street lamps outside glowed through the tall windows. John decided to head to bed not long after, the tv turned off and all the lights out save the dimmer ones in the kitchen just in case his mysteriously absent flatmate showed up at the wee hours of the morning. He yelled down a good night to Mrs Hudson and was met with a croak from Angus and a faint good night from his keeper. 

That night he slept in a proper bed again, lovely and soft, and John was quickly asleep, the very dull light from downstairs spilling in through his partially opened bedroom door. John dreamt again that night, the warmth of Hyperion’s scales missing, his dragon not there to defend him from the bad dreams. They started innocuous enough, walking through a field, wind in his hair, calm as can be. John came to a pond and leaned to pick up a stone to skip and his hand came back dripping red, and the dream spun rapidly out of control from there. He looked down at himself and saw the heavy combat gear from the war instead of his civvies, spattered red, the pond not water but blood. The field suddenly wilted and shriveled around him and the blood pool dried away to reveal a mound of corpses, human and dragon alike. As if John’s brain wanted to deal a final blow, as he stumbled back from the pile and fell backwards a great gust of wind caught him and flung him skyward, up into the clouds, and left him to freefall screaming towards the dried up ground again. 

John jolted awake as he hit the dirt, his heart thudding away in his chest. John struggled out of the sheets sticking to his skin, feeling for body armor that wasn’t there weighing him down. As he came around, breathing hard, he realized the bond was in turmoil too. Hyperion was very much awake with him and panicking. Scared questioning feelings poured over John, ‘what is wrong?!’ and ‘are you okay?!’ screaming across at him in a fearful rush. John tried to collect himself enough to respond, to try and send his own feelings of calm but with his mind still reeling from the nightmare it was tough. He pushed his feet off the bed onto the floor and forced himself to stand instantly grabbing for his cane as the leg flared with pain. John went and sat in the chair near the window, the cool air away from the bed soothing. He breathed deep for a moment. Distantly he heard a door in the flat below slam and voices carrying up the stairs. The flatmate was back, screw him, he needed Hyperion calmed before he could even begin to deal with the mess-maker downstairs. 

Hyperion flailed at the bond a little more before John finally managed to grip his attention and hold it. Whimpering fear wavered along the bond as John tried to project comfort back. John could only imagine what Hyperion looked like on the other end, tense and strung out, panting and making small pathetic noises into the night. If Sally hadn’t told him he had to stay away for a day he’d have gone down to Hyperion’s pit in his pyjamas and slippers straight away. But he had to stay put and handle it from a distance and so, slowly, he tried to comfort him to get him to relax back into sleep, all was okay, John was safe and sound, all just a bad dream. 

John finally got him down, Hyperion’s end of the bond quiet and still again, the dragon wearing himself out and falling back to sleep on John’s positive feelings and reassurances. Feeling worn from the sudden wake up and in need of some water John stood and headed for the stairs. He heard voices in the sitting room, neither one of them Mrs Hudson. John threw on his robe before heading down, almost certain the thunk of his cane on the stairs would announce his presence. 

Apparently not, because both of the men speaking continued to prattle away at each other as John crept onto the landing. 

“Jesus, Sherlock, Sally’s going to have your hide if you keep trying shit like this,” one said in a slightly nasal voice. 

“No she won’t,” replied the other man who must be Sherlock. John hadn’t taken any thought to what the guy would look or sound like but his voice was certainly a surprise that made him inhale sharply, holding his breath as he listened for more from the rich baritone.

“You cannot keep disobeying her and Lestrade’s orders and going galavanting off for days on end,” the nasal voice said. A sharp hiss of what sounded like pain emitted from Sherlock followed by a, “sit still, she got you good.” 

The room went quiet for a moment and John chose that time to make his presence known. He wasn’t quite prepared for the sight in the sitting room. A slightly fat man sat on the couch with an open first aid kit by his side. There was a tall skinny man sitting on the cleared coffee table covered in smears of bright red blood. His curly dark mop of hair was plastered down with it. The fat man was cleaning a cut across a pale swath of the back of his shoulder. Stunningly blue eyes turned to him the moment he stepped around the door, locking onto John as though reading him like a book the moment he laid those icy eyes on him. 

“Jesus fucking Christ.” John probably could have chosen more eloquent words to introduce himself to his supposed flatmate, but considering the circumstances of ‘bleeding all over the coffee table, while stripped from the waist up, and and staring him down with nearly disturbing focus’ John’s brain didn’t get far enough to process a more polite response. 

The fat man looked up from finishing his bandaging quickly, “Oh god, I am so sorry, this is not as bad as it looks --”

Those intelligent blue eyes still intently focused on John, Sherlock cut him off, lips forming the words, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”


	5. A Study in Aeries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank Nautilicious enough for being my beta.

“I-I’m sorry?” John was still fairly distracted by the half naked, bloodied man sitting on his coffee table.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he said, standing and quickly insinuating himself into John’s personal space. “Do not make me repeat myself, I find it rather tedious.” Sherlock’s icy eyes held John’s even as he approached, forcing John to look up as the man crowded up against him in the doorway, stopping short of smearing blood on John’s robe. John took a small step back; he didn’t have time to reply before Sherlock was off.

“You must be the new rider, going by the fact that you’ve just come from upstairs. I did hear you coming, the third step up creaks, not to mention the cane, you really are rather unsubtle. Hyperion’s enclosure has been occupied for the last five days and you’ve got quite a tan, stationed in the desert most likely--” a long fingered hand indicated the gap in John’s robe, revealing the tanning still present even after weeks indoors and under the cover of Hyperion’s enclosure.

“Afghanistan, alright?” John cut the torrent of words short, answering the odd man’s question while breaking eye contact and trying to tuck his robe closed. He shuffled away, into the open kitchen door at his side, dim lights providing an eerie greenish cast to the lab equipment still scattered there. The creepy green lit upon Sherlock as the tall man followed him. John’s original target had been a simple cool glass of water, but his trajectory changed as he found himself brandishing the kettle from the stove in an almost warding motion. “Tea?” John heard himself saying.

Sherlock stopped short on the other side of the table, an eyebrow raised momentarily before he dropped it, and with a smile that looked too fake to be any more than a polite gesture responded, “yes,” before sauntering off down the hall towards the bathroom.

He left John alone as he let the kettle boil and prepared the tea in silence. John was thankful the startle hadn’t woken Hyperion on the other end of the bond. The poor dragon was rattled enough for one night; he certainly didn’t need another rude awakening from John being spooked by his new strange flatmate. He was interrupted from his quiet regathering by the larger man stepping up next to where he was leaned against the table.

“Hello there, couldn’t help but notice you seemed a bit frazzled,” he said calmly, in a familiar manner that reminded John of what he used with new patients. “I’m Mike Stamford, I work with Molly over in the veterinary wing, good to meet you,” he had peeled off the gloves he’d been wearing while patching up Sherlock and offered a clean hand to shake. John took the offered hand with a quiet ‘hello’. 

“He’s a little… intense, for half past one in the morning,” John murmured, trying to keep his voice down in case the man in the other room might be eavesdropping. 

“He is a bit, yeah,” Mike admitted. There was a long pause in which the kettle pinged that the water was done boiling. John was already preparing the tea when Mike spoke again, “He’s always like that, figuring out things about you out of thin air. You’ll get used to it I suppose, Victor did somehow-” 

“Tea?”

“Oh, no thank you,” he declined politely, “I should be heading back to Cherie, she’s a little distraught over doing Sherlock an injury. Bloody genius startled her sneaking around the veterinary complex at all hours of the night.” Mike cast a small scowl towards the sitting room.

“You’re a keeper then?” John asked, noting the scratches that littered Sherlock’s torso. Considering the fact that they’d happened in the Aerie, unless there’d been some kind of knife fight, they were probably from small claws. 

“Yes, she’s a little Australian faerie dragon, Plated Leaf-Cutter, a real firecracker,” he said proudly, fishing a worn picture out of a pocket showing him with a tiny dragon in his arms, a dusty-red thing the size of a big housecat, the back of her covered in wide thick scales all the way down her tail which ended in a broad spade. She had small wings and stubby legs but long talons on little paws; John could easily see how the little demon had torn Sherlock up. When John failed to comment on Cherie Mike coughed and pocketed the photo. 

“I just wanted to make sure you’re alright before I leave you two to adjust.” He said resuming the doctorly concerned tone.

“Just a nightmare’s all,” John said, removing teabags.

“Two sugars,” Sherlock called from the sitting room, making John look sharply in that direction.

“How?”

Mike chuckled, “Told you, its what he does.”

John added the requested ingredients, having taken the time earlier to find the sugar tucked among the beakers in a cabinet next to an empty box of tea. “Well. Best be off,” Mike stopped one last time on his way out the door, looking into the sitting room, “Sherlock, try not to get into trouble again for a while,” he called into the sitting room only to gain a, “hmm,” in response. And with that, the last remotely normal person left, leaving John with a pair of mugs and a strange person in his sitting room, their sitting room. It was Sherlock’s first, technically, going by the sheer amount of clutter. 

He found Sherlock sitting at the table between the windows. The man had changed and washed off the majority of the blood on him, his hair wet and frizzed from a quick rinse and the red smudging his face cleared away. He sat wrapped in a blue robe, typing away at a laptop. When John entered the room he continued whatever he was doing with one hand while he stretched out the other for his tea, not even looking up from the screen. John handed him the mug before taking the spot on the couch that Mike had previously occupied to bandage Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“You don’t use the cane because you are wounded, that one is Hyperion’s,” Sherlock said abruptly, making John jump a fraction at the sudden declaration. A sip of tea and more words flowed from his mouth. “Your injury is in the left shoulder, you forget the cane meaning the leg wound is literally all in your head, comes and goes, you’ve left it just now in fact,” a hand wavered out in the direction of the kitchen pointing out where John had left his cane propped against the counter. “But your left arm, there’s a temor, and you’ve left one of your balls on the sofa,” John looked over to where he’d left the rubber exercise ball to blend into the dark leather of the cushions. “As I mentioned before you have the tanning pattern of a soldier stationed in a desert area. I know from Vi- Hyperion’s previous rider, that he was stationed originally in Iraq but warzones, assignments, and demand being what they are he could have been restationed. The carriers that brought you here only fly to Afghanistan.” John caught the slight hitch around Victors name, but before he could say anything Sherlock had shut the laptop and stood, scooping up his mug before resettling in the squat grey chair, still talking. “You have no family, at least none who are close, they haven’t visited you. The Aerie would be in an uproar if the new field bond’s whole family descended upon us, but you have received mail. A brother, perhaps, judging by the strong wording and drunkards scrawl on the package you received-” 

“You’ve seen my mail?” John finally interrupted the neverending flow of personal details, Sherlock was intent on rattling off, showing no indication that he cared if John was there or not.

Sherlock went silent, icey blue gaze flicking over to him as he took a long sip of tea. He looked away as he answered staring into the kitchen. “Who do you think delivered it?” he said cryptically.

“You?” 

“Of course not, but we do live in what is basically the Aerie’s mailroom, I saw it while fetching some things of my own and brought it to Lestrade’s attention.” His face scrunched in a sneer of contempt, “he tried to rope me into a delivery assignment again.” 

“Isn’t that your job though? As a rider in this division,” John asked, curious about this strange man and what exactly he did if he was ignoring his commander’s orders.

“I am a consulting detective. The fact that I’m in the mailroom is only because of my dragon, but I am no postman,” Sherlock looked at John with a sharp appraising stare as if daring John to say something.

“A consulting detective? What is that? A special position for riders?” John’s curiosity was genuine, it wasn’t like he began to know what all the positions riders could take were, for all he knew they did work with the police as detectives somehow. His whole worldview when it came to dragons and their riders had been quickly turned on its ear the moment he bonded with one.

“I made the job; I am the only one,” Sherlock replied, still staring at John out of the corner of his eye as if waiting for John to say something else. “People are so idiotic, so unobservant of the world around them, they see but fail to truly observe,” he murmured.

“That thing you were doing, the sugar, my shoulder--”

“I deduce, it’s not a magic trick, I observe and deduce facts from simply observing what others look over.” As the conversation had continued on Sherlock seemed to be deflating into his chair, slumping down into it a bit, putting his mug down. He seemed to be waiting for something John wasn’t saying.

“--my sister” John finished, “not a brother.” Sherlock perked up at that, head turning quickly towards him as though the man was about to spring out of his chair towards John.

“What?”

“The box I got in the post, it was from my sister Harry, short for Harriet. The rest was right though,” John nearly regretted correcting him as Sherlock put his hands to his eyes and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his palms into them. 

“Damnit, it’s always something,” Sherlock growled.

“But you still got the rest right, that’s pretty remarkable,” John said trying to make it right again, the rest had been fascinating, a bit baffling at first, but fascinating, and John was willing to bet had he not stopped Sherlock earlier the man would probably still be going right down to his study at St. Bart’s Hospital and beyond. 

“You think so?” Sherlock sounded a bit astonished by John’s statement as he pulled his hands away from his face. 

“Well, yeah, of course.”

“That’s not what most people say,” Sherlock said.

“Oh? what do most people say?” John asked, watching a brief flash of what looked like happiness cross Sherlock’s face in the form of a tiny tug upwards in the corner of his mouth, a small but genuine smirk. 

“Fuck off, Sherlock, usually variants upon that,” he confessed, standing from his chair and taking his empty mug with him into the kitchen. 

John noticed that whatever tension had been hovering over Sherlock since their conversation started seemed to evaporate when he gave Sherlock a positive response in reaction to the rapid fire deductions. The whole conversation an odd way of evaluating if Sherlock wanted to take further measures to remove John from his home. The nearly frenetic air that Sherlock appeared to emit left the room with the man and John felt a pull to follow, to continue talking and learn more about the strange yet interesting human he was to share his flat with.

But Sherlock hadn’t stopped in the kitchen, he’d dumped his mug into the sink and left it there, continuing on, heading for the closed door of his bedroom. John didn’t follow him beyond the threshold of the hallway, but still, in an attempt to not end the chat on an awkward note, blurted the first thing that came to mind.

“Is that an actual human hand in the refrigerator?” John already knew it was real, he’d seen the thing long enough to realize it was the real deal flesh and bone, John could have smacked himself for sounding so stupid. Sherlock did stop in his doorway though.

“Yes, it’s real, it’s clean, I’m saving it for an experiment. And before you ask, it came from the hospital morgue. I’m not going to chop off your limbs in your sleep,” He said, flicking on a light beyond the door. What little John could see of the room beyond looked pretty clean all things considered; he’d almost expected that door to open and see a hoarding nightmare beyond. He didn’t look long because Sherlock had turned back to him and the lamp light turned his light blue eyes a glowing silver momentarily. Before John could tell Sherlock that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind Sherlock continued.

“I know what is said about me around the Aerie,” and he closed the door, effectively ending the conversation. John stood there mulling over whether he should bother him further before deciding against it and going to get his abandoned tea. He dumped out the cold tea and grabbed a small glass of water to take back upstairs, remembering to take his cane with him.

With a gentle mental poke at the bond John checked on Hyperion, who was still sound asleep. He fixed the bed from where the sheets had become tangled earlier and tried to join him in sleep, but instead lay awake wondering what to do about the unusual man downstairs until he finally slipped off.

Morning came quietly to John. Sunlight streamed into the room and as he stretched and swung his legs off the bed he felt Hyperion’s end of the bond stirring as well. They had both slept peacefully after the nightmare and the encounter with Sherlock at the wee hours of the morning. At the thought of Sherlock John started listening for any noise downstairs, but none drifted up to greet him. Considering how late he’d come in John wouldn’t have been surprised if the curious man was still asleep, shut up in his room. 

He limped downstairs, still keeping an ear out for Sherlock. Upon reaching the landing he could hear the very faint noises of Mrs Hudson milling about down in her flat, but that was all. John ducked into the bathroom for a quick shower, noticing that the light on the other side of the frosted glass door leading to Sherlock’s room was off and the room beyond darkened. 

Hyperion murmured to him through the morning, the bond gently rippling with calm happiness. A handful of soft worried ‘are you alright?’ questions in reference to the nightmare drifted across during breakfast as John sat down to a plate of simple eggs and toast, having braved the fridge to find a good carton of eggs. 

John was startled from his quiet reverie by Sherlock’s bedroom door banging open and the man himself bustling out, dressed in very basic, sleek-looking, rider’s gear and a long coat. John was momentarily struck dumb by the attractive sight of him clad all in black, riding boots molded to his long calves, and trousers hugging the curve of his arse, with a sturdy-looking belt secured around his waist, steel hoops hanging from it. Even the waistcoat he wore over a white button up was black, and very form-fitting. Apparently Irene wasn’t the only rider who prefered a more eye-catching riding wardrobe. The long large-pocketed coat he wore sported the only color to the ensemble, a little red buttonhole high on the collar. As Sherlock rushed about the flat he added to it a blue scarf, wrapped around his long neck. He stopped in the kitchen doorway as he slipped on a pair of black leather gloves, John, watching as Sherlock hurried around muttering and scooping things into his pockets, felt his tongue dart out to moisten lips gone suddenly dry. 

“I’ll be out, don’t wait up for me,” was all Sherlock said before darting out with a swish of coat; snapping John out of his staring. He felt his face heat a bit upon realizing he’d been basically ogling his new flatmate’s arse. John heard him dashing down the stairs; the front door hadn’t even been opened before he heard Sherlock’s booted footsteps coming back up again. He appeared in the doorway. “You were an army doctor, correct?” 

John’s eyebrow rose, “Yes?” 

“You’ve seen a lot of deaths, a lot of action?” He asked, giving John that reading look, like he was monitoring John’s responses again. John felt a slightly hopeful mood radiating from Sherlock; in his eyes there was a glint that screamed to John, ‘come with me it’ll be fun!’ 

“Yes. Are you going somewhere with this?” John replied.

“Would you like to see more?” The ambiguous question should have put John off. More of what? More death, more guts and gore like he’d seen on the battlefield? Certainly not, if he ever saw destruction of life on that scale again it’d be all too soon. But action, the prospect of excitement that this strange flatmate seemed to exude, set John’s brain alight. Even with Sally’s warnings to stay away, John couldn’t help but feel a pull to join this frenetic self-proclaimed detective and fall down the rabbit hole chasing after him. The longer the silence between them seemed to stretch the more John felt the call to action, to get up and run, which prompted his response. 

“Oh god yes,” and like that John was out of his seat at the table, breakfast partially eaten and abandoned, as he followed after the flash of an oddly bright grin and dark coat tails, grabbing his own black jacket from the rack as he left. 

“Mrs Hudson! We’ll both be out!” Sherlock called, as he descended into the foyer.

“Already? You just got in this morning.” Mrs Hudson had her doors open at the bottom of the stairs. John caught a glimpse of Angus, staring wide eyed and fixated on the television, a bowl of leafy greens between his forearms. Mrs Hudson was in the hall with Sherlock, “I hope you’re not overworking, Bell worries about you, I know she does.” Sherlock paused in his passing to look at Mrs Hudson. He leaned down and gave her a quick hug and peck on the cheek. 

“I take good care of her, and I did get some rest last night.” he said quietly, face softening briefly as though he were reassuring his mother, “but right now something has happened, the game is on,” he said, and like that Sherlock was off again, out the door and into the street. John hurried after him, giving Mrs Hudson a polite nod and good morning before heading out into the mild coolness of the day.

Sherlock was already heading down the street towards the dragon hall at a brisk pace, coat billowing dramatically behind him. John rushed to catch up, Hyperion prodding at him, curious about what had John excited. They were quiet as they turned into the hall connecting the corridors, giving John the time to try to convey to Hyperion that Sherlock, the rider of the dragon across the hall, had something exciting going on and had invited John to join him. Hyperion pushed a combination of happiness that John was up and seemed happy and healthy, twisted with a slight worry over what Sherlock wanted to involve John in. 

As they reached the dragon hall they began to encounter other workers starting to go about their days, all of them avoiding Sherlock as he swept past.

“What are we doing?” John finally asked, following Sherlock across the hall, past the public bath and towards the massive door marked 2-21b.

“I am on a case, you are my assistant.”

“A case?” John repeated.

“A suicide,” Sherlock clarified.

“Wouldn’t the police handle that?” John asked, Sherlock bringing them to a halt outside 2-21b’s small door.

“Not when they are in over their heads, which is almost always, and what they’re claiming is suicide is in fact a murder,” Sherlock smirked, pushing the door open and stepping through. John followed him in, the reveal that Sherlock had involved him in a murder investigation and the dragon resting on the other side of the door shocked him into crying “murder?” as Sherlock pushed him through and shut the door behind him.

The room looked like a veritable jungle compared to Hyperion’s, plants and trees in pots and planters everywhere, great bushy greenery and flowers and rubbing trees like Hyperion’s. The furnishings were similar to Hyperion’s, a large mat at the opposite end of the room, cabinets and workbenches in alcoves. In the center of the jungle though, in a dug-out hole in the sand, lay a beautiful silver creature. From nose to tail the sleek dragon was a gorgeous silver, not a perfect mirror chrome, nowhere close, but its scales shone in the natural light of the open ceiling. The silver reflected the bright blue of the sky and the green of the plants, casting it in a somewhat warped powdery blue and dark green shade along its back. It was smaller than Hyperion, but only slightly; what it lacked in leg height it made up for in length and span as John watched it uncurl and stand in a graceful fluid motion, stretching out long white-silver webbed wings and pulling them back in in a quick snapping motion. Poor Hyperion was a clunky mess compared to the elegance this creature exuded. It had a long face similar to Hyperion’s, but jutting from its head, instead of the crown of horns Hyperion boasted, it had a pair of long ivory white horns curving upwards. A smooth area continued down its neck between them, and spines of smaller white thorns protruded below them along its jaw, creating almost a fan of white horns on either side. Its eyes were blue, a bright blue that faded to a lighter shade around the pupil. 

“This is yours?” John said dumbly, watching the long neck bow to nose at Sherlock’s outstretched palm.

“Of course she’s mine!” Sherlock snapped with a defensive tone. “This is Bellamy,” he added more softly, black gloves soothing over the silver scales of her muzzle. Now that she was up and moving closer John noticed she was wearing a very simple harness: a saddle with plenty of padding underneath it and a couple saddle bags to either side, a wide belt that wrapped around under her neck at the top of her chest, and various metal rings around the edges. The whole affair was made of black and dark grey leather and sitting high in front of her wings. 

“Silkwing Ridgeback, a French locality bred for centuries for their speed and beauty,” Sherlock said, as she turned from him and went to inspect John. Up close John could see that she had darker patterning, like Hyperion but much more subtle and much cleaner looking. She wore warped stripes and rings from the top of her head on down, the backs of her wings carried large patterns on them like butterfly wings.

As she nosed at him John looked to Sherlock, who was paying no attention to them as he rummaged through a chest for something. John didn’t know if he was allowed to touch her. The other people in the Aerie had seemed fine to touch Hyperion, but they were far more experienced with dragons and the children had expressly asked permission and been told by Sally to do so. 

“You can touch her.” Sherlock called, as if he had read John’s mind from across the room. 

John laid his hand on her nose finally. She was warm, but not in the same way as Hyperion, she was a fiery warm, but the feeling didn’t travel up his arm or suffuse his body and mind like when he was in contact with Hyperion. It was that moment John realized he couldn’t begin to know what she was thinking. Hyperion was an open book to him every movement, every little twitch of his face easily readable. Staring into Bellamy’s blue eyes John realized she was about as big of a mystery to him as her rider still was. John had no practice reading dragon body language outside of the bond with Hyperion. Angus had been easy; he was small and his frills helped in reading him like signal flags. Bellamy seemed to like John, if anything she was curious about him, but any other interpretations beyond that would be an absolute stab in the dark.

Hyperion’s end of the bond stirred with curiosity, wondering about the thing that had John so confused and yet still somewhat excited. John tried to project to him an image of Bellamy and Sherlock, each receiving their own recognition of ‘Victor’s mate’ and an almost affectionate feeling, ‘Her.’

John started at the ‘Victor’s’ part, looking over at Sherlock, _they were in a relationship?_ John thought _or does that just mean they were living together and he misinterpreted?_ Hyperion pushed a memory to him, of Victor coming to him positively reeking of Sherlock, of meeting Sherlock and Bellamy for the first time on duty around the Aerie, at the landing field, in the hall, and putting that smell and the man together. 

John was still absentmindedly stroking along Bellamy’s smooth scales as he contacted Hyperion with the bond when he felt something being cinched around his waist. Sherlock stood pulling a belt similar to his own onto John, metal rings clanging while he adjusted it and brought the buckle around front.

“What the--?” John sputtered as Bellamy’s head swung away from them. She lay down in front of them, the saddle at the base of her neck presented with a couple footholds on the band for climbing up the short distance to it. 

“A spare belt, you haven’t had time for a proper fitting, and you’d be stupid to ride without one,” Sherlock said, pushing John forward. 

“Ride?!” John cried 

“Of course, how else do you expect to get across London in a reasonable amount of time? Now quit being an idiot and and climb up,” Sherlock said impatiently, when John stopped right next to Bellamy’s neck.

“I-I can’t climb, bum arm, see,” John flailed for an excuse not to get into that saddle, moving his injured arm and hissing as he rotated it too far and too fast and a spike of pain flashed through the shoulder. Bellamy’s head was curled back next to them in an instant. Sherlock bent and grabbed one of John’s legs forcing him to put a foot up,

“Like this then.” He put John’s foot at the edge of Bellamy’s lower lip and the dragon automatically pushed under John and lifted him up to the saddle. John grabbed at the saddle with his good arm just to keep from falling and ended up sprawled across the wide padded seat. “Now let me up,” Sherlock commanded, climbing up the handholds on the belt quickly and forcing John to try and right himself as Sherlock took his place sitting upright in the saddle. John was straddling the soft blanket of padding behind the saddle in the end. Sherlock took a cable that had been clipped between two of the rings on the saddle’s edge and secured one end of it to his own belt before handing another to John, When John didn’t clip it to his own belt Sherlock let out a frustrated huff and did it himself, taking a second one and clipping it to John’s other side. “I haven’t got all day.” Sherlock huffed, settling into the well-worn saddle in front of John.

John could hardly believe he was sitting astride an actual dragon, his mind narrowing to _Oh Christ he’s going to make me fly! I Can’t, I can’t, need to get off right now!_ Bellamy shifted, getting back to her feet and walking. John grabbed for the saddle ring in front of him, gripping hard as he felt her muscles shifting underneath him. Sherlock sat before him so calm and poised in the saddle; he reached forward to pet the side of her neck before straightening again and turning slightly to say, “Hold on.”

John’s heart leapt into his throat as Bellamy crouched and in one fluid motion stretched her wings and leapt towards the sky. He stopped breathing for a moment, gripping the saddle in front of him till his knuckles turned white. Bellamy hadn’t even taken off yet, merely made one giant hop up to the top of the wall. John looked out at the dragon pits around them, some open like Bellamy’s, others covered over like Hyperion’s. He didn’t have time to take in the new perspective of the Aerie as she made a final leap skyward. 

Bellamy darted through the air, wings flapping smoothly on either side of them, the sun making her scales shine all the brighter. John could only focus on the fact that he was flying, as the initial rush of take-off pushed him back; his hands began to hurt with the force of his grip. With a delicate swoop she leveled off to a glide, the jerk of it terrifying to the point that John reached forwards and rather than grip the saddle, clung to Sherlock himself, flattening against the back of the saddle and gripping fistfuls of the bastard’s clothing. John’s heart thundered in his chest; he couldn’t suck in enough air fast enough as he looked wide-eyed down at London, the grey stone canyons of the Aerie walls giving way to city then skyscrapers. Flashes of the Thames, the Eye, the Gherkin, various landmarks of the London skyline in the distance beyond intermittently flapping wings and all John could think was panicked repetition of _no, no, no, no!_ Bellamy suddenly made a smooth dip downwards and John clung harder to Sherlock, finding his voice. 

“Fuck! You mad bastard! Land, for god’s sake, land!” He began to feel dizzy as the wind continued to rush in his ears, he couldn’t tell if he was about to be sick or faint or both. John closed his eyes to the distant city below, but unlike flying in a crate where that actually helped fractionally, the sheer sensory input of the wind buffeting him, the sounds, the smells, everything was ratcheted higher without the protective walls of a box. 

Just as quickly as they’d taken flight it ended. A short, stomach-churning, weightless drop and John felt Bellamy’s wingbeats increase in speed, the rustling of trees, and then a sudden stop as she landed hindfoot first, then the rest following till she was solidly grounded again. 

Wherever they were there were flashing lights nearby and John slowly peeled open his eyes, hands still keeping their death grip on Sherlock’s coat. They were near a row of run down houses, their fronts covered in scaffolding, Police cars with red and blue lights flashing away were the only things occupying the street outside a ring of police tape. 

John didn’t care, Hyperion was in a royal panic on the other end of the bond. The dragon now miles and miles away was still perfectly connected. If being in the flat was meant to make sure the bond would hold, then this was the true test; John had been quickly yanked away from being close to Hyperion right across the hall.

Sherlock was prying at John’s hands trying to get him to let go. John’s heart was still thudding away at a panicky rhythm. He felt Bellamy crouch down again and renewed his grip on whatever was in front of him. “For god’s sake, let go,” Sherlock murmured frustratedly, and John realized she wasn’t preparing to jump, she was laying down to let them dismount. He finally loosed his grip on Sherlock, knuckles sore, scrabbling at the clips Sherlock had affixed to the infernal belt before he gave up and undid the belt itself. Sherlock had already unclipped himself and bounded off. “Come on John,” he called, not looking back.

John nearly face-planted in his struggle to get off; it was only for the fact that Bellamy’s head was curled around to help him that he didn’t crack his skull on the pavement. He grabbed at her snout, his shoulder screaming in protest as he brought his bad arm into play, gripping smooth scales as she lifted him from being hung upside down by his feet on the saddle cables. Bellamy put him down safely, feet on the ground as gentle as Hyperion ever was with him.

“John--” Sherlock started impatiently, coming back to find John had not followed him.

He was cut short by John’s fist contacting with his cheek, “Don’t you ever do that to me again! You cock.” John yelled at him, panting and still feeling incredibly shaky. God only knew what Hyperion was doing back at the Aerie, but his end of the bond was still a riot of panic, concern, worry, and flashes of anger at not being able to come to his rider’s aid. John didn’t even wait for Sherlock to respond before he walked away, moving to go around Bellamy and distance himself from this whole flying business. 

A taloned paw suddenly wrapped around him, scooping him off the ground easily, and it was in that moment John understood what he’d done: he’d just assaulted a rider in front of his dragon. He had seen Hyperion kill someone for that out on the battlefield. But rather than find himself being crushed or punctured by claws or teeth clamping around his head, he was pressed into Bellamy’s chest, paw pinning him against warmth and a loud healthy heartbeat. It wasn’t Hyperion, the heat wasn’t the same, the heartbeat even sounded slightly different, but she held him there all the same; she was hugging him like Hyperion had back at Kandahar. As she held him there he felt himself relaxing a bit; the familiar feel of belly scales against his cheek and a calming beat pumping away in his ears helped calm him and in turn calm Hyperion from afar. _I’m okay, I’m alright, I’m not in danger, it’s all okay._ His thoughts helped calm himself and his dragon, as Bellamy gently kept him pressed to her breast.

“Bell tells me I must apologize,” John heard Sherlock say nearby. “I did not know…” Sherlock almost sounded like a child being made to say sorry by his mother. Bellamy let out a huffy snort above John and carefully let him go, pushing John away and back towards Sherlock with her knuckles, out of her cool shadow. The limp from Hyperion had returned with a vengeance and without his cane, John hobbled forward.

John took a deep breath and let it out as he looked up at the tall detective, police lights still flashing away behind him. “You have a fear of flying,” Sherlock stated, baritone not sounding surprised at all, even though his eyes showed a small level of confusion. 

John coughed, looking away, “Yes, since I was a boy,” he said shortly.

“I can pay for a cab back.” Sherlock said, after a long pause.

John looked back up at Sherlock, “you’re not going to make me fly back?” he said, looking back at Bellamy who was finding a comfortable spot out of the way to lie down and curl into a tight silver ball. 

“Cabs are dull, boring, not even remotely fast, but if you need one, I will pay.” Sherlock said, looking back toward the police cars and tape distractedly. John followed his gaze to the run-down house beyond. He probably would regret the decision he was about to make, considering the first time he’d decided to follow Sherlock had just ended poorly. 

“Well... You dragged me all the way out here. I might as well stick around for whatever it is you wanted me for.” John sighed. A wide smile crossed Sherlock’s face at that.

“Come on then,” he said turning towards the police tape with a dramatic sweep of his coat. John cast a last glance back at Bellamy, who sniffed at him, nodding in Sherlock’s direction, before he limped after her rider. 

“Oh for the love of god! Sherlock! What are you doing here?” shouted a voice from the open doorway the moment Sherlock lifted the tape for John to duck under. A younger looking man with cropped brown hair in a tie and long jacket stood on the front steps glaring at Sherlock, “Does Lestrade know you’re out?” he asked, as Sherlock marched right up to the door, making as if he would just brush past the slightly shorter man. The man didn’t budge. With an exasperated eye roll Sherlock stopped. 

“You texted, said there was another suicide,” 

“I said come by after your assignments were done for the day!” 

“And waste time while your people ruin the crime scene and the killer gets away? I only need five minutes,” Sherlock said, staring the officer down.

“God! Fine, but Lestrade’s going to have my ass when he finds out you’re down here.” 

“I’m sure he will,” Sherlock replied with a smug smirk crossing his face as he pushed past and on into the house. The policeman stopped John though. 

“Who are you?” he asked, looking John up and down.

“Oh, er, I’m John Watson, I’m with him,” John said, pointing to Sherlock.  
“Shit, Sherlock, you couldn’t even let him get settled first?” the officer said. Sherlock just grabbed John’s arm and pulled him along, John gimping behind Sherlock at the stairs. 

“He knows you?” John asked curiously.

“Detective Inspector Ian Dimmock, he’s Lestrade’s husband, of course he know’s me,” Sherlock replied, following the trail of officers and forensics people up the dingy stairs. At the top floor of the house Sherlock darted into an open door, not even remotely out of breath from the brisk climb. John brought up the rear, caneless and leaning heavily on the banister by the time he reached the top and limped after Sherlock. 

The scene was not what he’d been expecting. It wasn’t gruesome or gory, no blood on the walls or even any signs of a struggle, just a woman’s body, covered by a pink coat, lying face down in the middle of the room. Sherlock was already examining her, black coat fanned out behind him making him look like a raven picking at a corpse. He leaned in, apparently unworried about getting his face extremely close to the dead woman’s body. Sherlock had pulled on a pair of latex gloves, undoubtedly nicked from a table out on the landing, and was gingerly handling the arm closest to him, examining and feeling of her fingers and pulling it out from under the cover of the coat to look at the biceps. He put it back and reached for the pink collar, pulling it up and away from her body to look underneath. John saw that her other arm was pointing to something on the floor, pink nails chipped and bloodied, pointing to a word scratched into the wood floorboards.

“John, come here,” Sherlock said not looking up from the corpse. John knelt down across from him.

“What?” 

“You’re a doctor--”

“I’m your flatmate.” 

“I’d like a second opinion, and isn’t this more fun than sitting around the flat doing nothing?” Sherlock nodded down at the corpse pointedly. 

“Fun? She’s dead, Sherlock,” 

“Perfectly sound analysis but I was hoping you’d go deeper.” For a moment John just stared in disbelief at this strange human being, but Sherlock had said he wanted an assistant and in order to learn more about this white rabbit he’d have to follow further down the hole. Examining this body for him would hopefully provide more information. John sighed, giving in and getting down closer after Sherlock handed him another pair of gloves. John checked her over for him quickly. 

“Asphyxiation, passed out and choked on her own vomit, but there’s no visible exterior causes--” 

“It’s a poison. She’s the fourth in a series of suicides, always the same toxin, always the same way, and they always turn up in remote areas nowhere near where they should be.” Sherlock interrupted

“But you said they were murders,” John said

“Yes, someone is making these people take it, I don’t know how, but they are being forced to.” Sherlock looked so frustrated by that, the fact that he couldn’t or hadn’t yet figured it out.

“She wrote ‘rache’ on the floor, German for revenge, could mean something,” Dimmock said from the doorway. Sherlock was going through her pockets, when he arrived. “She had her wallet on her, no ID, but the credit cards are all under the name Jennifer Wilson--” 

“She’s not German, she was trying to write the name Rachel. I’m going to need you to find out who that is, friends, family.” Sherlock said springing up. “She’s an Aerie worker, not from London though, she traveled here within the last few hours overnight. There’s a piece of a train ticket in her pocket, but not enough to tell where she’s from; judging by the damp under her collar and the dry umbrella in her other pocket she came through rain on the way here, which, going by the weather forecasts, means she’s from Cardiff. Cardiff is the only place that has gotten significant heavy rain with high winds meaning she was unable to use her umbrella and turned her coat collar up to the wind.”

“Incredible,” John said quietly staring at Sherlock as he danced through the deductions, gesturing with his hands and whirling about energetically as he unwound the mystery woman’s identity from seemingly nothing. He paused to look at John at the small praise and Dimmock got in another question. 

“How do you know she’s from an Aerie? She looks like your average Jane on the street,” The question spurred Sherlock on, out of his momentary stunned silence appearing to process that John had just complimented him. A blink and he was talking again.

“Burns, she has the burn marks commonly seen in workers who work with high temperatures, making Cardiff even more likely, they are a primarily aquatic Aerie, dealing with high temperature northern breeds: lots of boiling water, and even an experienced worker is bound to have marks. Hers are actually a particular pattern seen in--” He suddenly froze, a pale black clad statue looking down on the pink-covered lady. Something had just clicked and John could almost visibly see it as Sherlock’s eyes widened and he took in a sharp breath. “She had a case with her.”

“What?” Dimmock looked stumped by the abrupt change in topic.

“A case, there’s a light splash pattern of mud up the back of her left leg, a rolling case!” Sherlock darted out of the room into the hall franticly looking for something. 

“Sherlock, there wasn’t anything found with her,” Dimmock said as Sherlock began looking around other rooms on the same floor. Sherlock stopped, staring at Dimmock for a moment before a grin crossed his face. 

“What about her phone?” he asked, coming back to John and Dimmock as confused forensics people looked on. 

“No phone either,” Dimmock replied. 

“We have a slip-up.” Sherlock said, quiet, but excited.

“Huh?”

“Its a serial killer and they’ve made a big mistake this time!” Sherlock was off and heading down the stairs, John trying to follow as fast as he could on his bad leg. 

“Sherlock, wait a minute! What mistake?” Dimmock called down the stairwell after him. 

“Eggs!” Sherlock shouted back, hurrying out the door as he stripped off the latex gloves he’d used to examine the woman’s body. 

John caught up to him outside; Bellamy had uncurled herself and stood with her head bent down to Sherlock’s level. He had the pair of disposable gloves held up to her, letting her tongue them with a short-forked tongue, letting her scent them.

“Sherlock!” John called, walking to him.

“Shh, working,” Sherlock hissed at him, “do you have a scent? You know what she smells like?” Sherlock asked Bellamy, calmly rubbing her nose with his bare hands, “Think you can find it?” he asked again, giving her a warm smile, “go on then, don’t destroy anything,” Bellamy looked intent on every word that he said, but that last remark John saw her eyes roll and snorted a laughing huff in Sherlock’s face before rising up. She made some distance between them before she took to the air in one great bound, a quick gust of wind traveling down the street with her first wingbeats, John getting to see at a distance what he’d felt and been terrified by before as butterfly-spotted wings opened and caught the midday air and sunlight.

“Sherlock, what’s all this about eggs? What’s she looking for?” John asked, watching her fly off beyond a line of buildings. “Hold on. Is it safe to let her just go flying off on her own like that?” 

“Of course it is, anyway she shouldn’t have to go very far.” Sherlock replied, slowly beginning to walk off down the road in the general direction she had flown and towards more busy and habitated areas. 

“And the eggs?” John prompted, following along, noticing Sherlock was intentionally walking slow enough for him to keep up for now, _conserving energy probably_ John thought.

“The eggs, the marks on the woman’s hands and arms indicate she is an egg caretaker. Most dragon eggs need to be kept at higher temperatures in order to hatch. They also need to be turned and moved, meaning a caretaker will eventually bear the marks of prolonged working in such an environment: tougher hands, old burn marks; judging by her age she’s been at her post for years.” 

“But what does that have to do with her murder?” 

“She had fresher marks on her hands. A woman with that level of experience as a caretaker wouldn’t have fresh marks unless she was in a hurry; she was packing quickly and grabbed an egg in her bare hands. Prolonged contact will burn, but a brief pick up and plop in a case of one or two smaller eggs would create what I observed.” Sherlock rattled off, still walking casually as you please down the road, his long coat and scarf hiding his riding clothes for the most part.

“She was smuggling dragon eggs?” John asked incredulously, astounded that that was actually something that happened before he remembered Lestrade mentioning something about Hummer eggs being smuggled in. “But what would they do with them?” he asked giving voice to the new question spinning in his head.

“Any number of horrific things I’m sure, there are some parts of the world that still consider certain small breeds to be a delicacy for eating, use their skins for fashion, their bones and organs for bogus remedies. If they even survive to hatching maybe they’re sold as pets to the underground, some drug lord wants something exotic, never touches the hatchling, lets it turn feral, keeps it in a collection till it gets too large, kills it and it becomes a trophy. Could be sold to a terrorist group; did you ever wonder during the your adventures at the war front where the enemy got their dragons? Constantly sacrificing them to the war before they are mature breeding age, the stock has to come from somewhere. It’s either steal feral eggs like the Dark Ages if they’re lucky, or pay an obscene amount of money to have the eggs smuggled from an Aerie. It appears our victim was guilty of the latter.” The picture Sherlock painted was grim at best, and so far the worst thing John had heard involving the whole sort of society surrounding dragons. Sherlock began to pick up speed again, as they talked he had been leading John down the street and through a couple alleyways. Sherlock stopped and turned abruptly in the middle of the ally they’d gone down.

“She’s found something.” Sherlock said, but he didn’t sound happy about that, like he had so far, the excitement of the case seemed to melt away and be replaced by a different sort of energy: this was danger. His voice carried a slight note of horror to it as he bolted towards the next road, John having to force himself to try and forget about the phantom pain in his leg and run after him.

Sherlock sprinted, shouting directions back to John as he turned corners, down back alleys and dodged traffic a couple times. _The bond. He’s using the bond to find Bellamy,_ John thought, panting with the exertion to keep up with the long-legged rider running ahead. Sherlock turned down a particularly narrow alley and made the corner, John saw him hop a short wire fence behind the building and stop dead in his tracks. It wasn’t till he caught up to him that he saw what made the detective stop. 

Next to a row of dumpsters sat an open huge pink rolling suitcase, Bellamy sitting in the small courtyard nearby with her head near the reeking garbage cans. The horrific part wasn’t the open case, it was what lay inside. Inside sat a broken egg, and a baby dragon roughly the size of Angus lay amongst broken pieces shell and yellowish goo. The slime from the egg was everywhere. Thin threads of what looked like blood mixed with clear fluid overflowed the case and spilled across the ground. The hatchling’s long, thin, neck flopped out to lie on the concrete, small-toothed mouth and pale white eyes open. It was still alive. It’s chest was heaving away, body still curled in the remains of egg in the case. 

“Oh god,” John said quietly, “Sherlock, what do we do?” he asked, unable to rip his eyes away from the pitiful sight of the abandoned hatchling. Bellamy was breathing over it, keeping the poor thing warm in the cold shadows of an already cool day. Sherlock snapped out of his own slackjawed shock. “John I need you over here. Now.” He said, his voice quiet but deadly serious. “There are some blankets in that case with it, I’m going to need your help holding it while we get it wrapped up.” He spoke while John found the latch for the gate, being unable to just jump the fence and join him. They both approached the mess, Sherlock grabbing the case to move it. John hesitated in touching the hatchling though. 

“Pick it up, support it’s neck, you’re bound; it’s not like you can bond again,” Sherlock snapped impatiently, unable to move the suitcase out and away from the foulness of the dumpsters without John helping lift its head off the ground.

John gingerly scooped up the poor thing’s head, using his worse arm to support the lighter weight of its neck as Sherlock dragged the case out and began pulling sodden blankets out of the other end, laying them out on the concrete. “It’s a mess but it’ll have to do for now.” Sherlock said, stripping off his coat and suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves. Sherlock reached into the muck and carefully pulled the egg onto the sheets. He peeled away the remainder of the shell, tossing it back into the case. The hatchling uncurled on its own, short legs still tucked close and new spindly wings trying to pry free from the goo plastering them to its body. 

“A Devon White-Eye,” Sherlock said, working to get the poor thing laid out.

“A what?” John asked, still holding its head in his lap, not really sure of what else to do.

“It’s a nocturnal coastal species. They start out light like this, live along the beaches and rocks along the southern coast, darken as they age and either stick to the coast or migrate inwards toward Dartmoor. Named for their eyes; no matter what the color the eyes are always white.” The body, now that John looked, was a mottled beige, like granite with black flecking all over. Sherlock started wrapping the blanket snugly around the hatchling’s body, tucking its wings and feet back in close like they had been in the egg. He wrapped as much of it as he could, leaving just its head and the end of its tail free. All the while Bellamy hovered nearby, keeping all three of them good and warm with her breath.

Sherlock attempted to wipe the slime off of his hands before reaching for his phone. “Dimmock, we found the woman’s suitcase, it will be at the Aerie if you want it,” he said shortly then quickly hung up, dialing another number, still scanning the scene as it rang.

“I need a car. Now. Preferably one you don’t mind getting messy.” He rattled off the address and hung up again without so much as a goodbye.

“Why do we need a car?” John asked still stroking the head in his lap, keeping it off the cool concrete.

“It’s too fragile to fly with me and you can’t fly either. As inconvenient as it is, a car is our only option,” he said, still looking at his phone, dialing another number. “Molly, I’m going to need you ready to care for a premature hatchling; find someone ready to bond. I’ll be there in an hour or two,” another hang up and he pocketed the phone. 

The wait for the car was nowhere near as long as John thought it would be. The driver came to them rounding the corner and stopping, staring wide-eyed at the pair of them and the large dragon crouched in the small yard. “Mr. Holmes?” he asked, still staring at he sickly hatchling.

Sherlock acknowledged him, telling him to go wait in the car before turning to Bellamy to say, “fly home, I’ll see you in a few hours.” John could almost see the worry in her eyes as she hesitated to stand, still looking at the bundle between them, but she did take to the sky, perching on the roof of the building briefly before leaving. 

John helped Sherlock lift the bundle that was the hatchling, Sherlock carrying the bulk of it. They bundled it into the back seat of the black car waiting for them, and John stayed while Sherlock bounded off to grab his coat and the suitcase, zipped closed but still somewhat oozing egg fluid as Sherlock rolled it along.

The moment Sherlock sat down in the back seat he ordered the driver to crank the heat as high as it would go and they were off, heading back towards the Aerie. The car ride was silent. Sherlock kept a large hand resting on the hatchling’s body the entire way, long fingers idly stroking along the ridge of a wing or along its spine now and then. In the quiet John had time to contact Hyperion who was on constant alert on the other end of the bond, John could almost feel him twitching, wanting to get up and go to him but unable to. John continued to stroke along the small head as he communicated with Hyperion _I’ve got a lot to tell you about tonight, I might stay with you,_ John thought to him, continuing to push comfort to Hyperion knowing how much John’s crazy adventure that day had stressed the both of them out. He glanced at Sherlock who was staring out the window at the sky, John could almost see the gears whirring away in his head, thinking about god knew what. _Maybe he’s talking to Bellamy_ he thought, remembering that the detective shared an even stronger bond with her than John had at the moment with Hyperion, strange as he was, a proper rider with decades of experience. 

John hadn’t seen the front gates of the Aerie yet and they were an intimidating sight, Giant bronze dragons, like the lions at Trafalgar square, sat on both sides of a wide multi-lane road leading through a huge stretch of grassy landscape that appeared to surround the Aerie walls for as far as the eye could see in both directions. A bowed curve of columns stretched outwards from either side of the gate itself. They reminded John of the front of the county hall building down by the Thames. The gate itself was a massive wrought-iron construction, black bars and filigrees towering high. Like the wooden doors in the dragon hall, multiple smaller gates stood open at the bottom, with guards at their sides checking cars and allowing them passage into or out of the Aerie.

Mike was actually the one who met them just beyond the gate, in a van done up like an ambulance. It was there the black car stopped and they worked to transfer over to the van, Sherlock once again dragging the dripping case with them. John didn’t want to let the hatchling go and ended up keeping its head in his lap as the van took off.

With no windows to tell where they were going, all John could do was let his mind wander as Mike drove them to the veterinary wing.

“Why did you bring the case with us?” he finally asked Sherlock, who was sitting hands pressed together in his lap, staring off into the distance. 

“Sherlock?” John reached over and nudged him, and he finally blinked and looked over at John. 

“What was that?” he asked back.

“The case, you could have left it in the alley for Dimmock,” John prompted, nodding to the slimy mess across from Sherlock.

“I need to analyze it.” Sherlock replied.

“But isn’t it evidence? Shouldn’t that be the police’s job?” Sherlock sniffed at that, looking over at John out of the corner of his eye.

“One might say what you have there in your lap is also technically evidence,” he said. John looked down at the pale, ridged head in his lap, the hatchling’s big white eyes closed. Sherlock dropped the van back into silence, and it was a long stretch before John felt compelled to ask more.

“What about the woman and the poisonings, where do they play into this? They dumped the egg, whoever it was didn’t want it-”

“There was a second egg,” Sherlock interrupted. 

“What?” 

“Look at the size of the case. There was room enough for two eggs with padding. The killer noticed that the case was leaking, opened it up to find one of the eggs was broken, decided to take the other one and leave the ‘bad’ one to rot.” Sherlock said, gesturing at the suitcase as he talked.

“But this one’s so big, how could there possibly have been two?” John asked, looking down at the hatchling laid out on a gurney. 

“You’ve seen babies before. They always seem much bigger right after they’re born, room to spread out after being tightly confined. Dragon hatchlings aren’t any different.” 

The van suddenly stopped and they were piled out once more into a large courtyard very similar looking to the landing field, grey, ornately carved stone walls with grass covering the middle. Molly was there waiting for them. John saw her eyes widen as the van doors opened. Calm and collected as any doctor John had ever met in the face of the slimy mess that emerged from the van, she took control of the situation. 

“This way, bring it this way,” she instructed with an air of urgency as she took the lead and Mike and John both helped move unload the van. 

The hatchling was taken gurney and all into a building with massive doors almost like a gigantic barn. On the inside though it was extremely clean, the inside rather resembled a barn as well, to the left and right clean hallways with red brick walls and massive stalls with half doors lined a large indoor hallway. John was briefly reminded of the giraffe house at the zoo from when he was a child. A couple occupants of the stalls had their heads resting up on the padded edges of their open doors.

Rather than lead them down the massive corridors, where John could see attendants’ heads already turning to look at what was being wheeled in, Molly led them straight through to a smaller two-story building within the barn with more human-sized double doors. The building turned out to be the ward for smaller patients. She took the hatchling to a small, very warm examination room past a handful of offices in the front and their occupants. It was there John lost track of Sherlock, invested as he was in helping Molly make sure the hatchling was alright. 

“He said it was called a Devon White-Eye,” John said, hoping that was useful information while Molly set about unwrapping the poor thing. 

“Oh, the rangers are going to have a fit over this one,” Molly said finishing the unwinding. The hatchling flopped out on the table, its short legs flopping away from its pale speckled body and its thin wings peeling away weakly. “Did Sherlock say where it was from?” she asked John, as she moved to toss the blankets away, then rolling the hatchling onto its belly so that its wings lay cupped around it. 

“He said it was from Cardiff,” John replied, stepping out of her way as she bustled around the room, collecting a stack of towels and a tray of instruments. 

“It’s from a captive clutch, well, even if it was destined for a feral release it’s not now. It’s only a few days premature I’d say, but god knows what went on before that. The egg yolk is absorbed, that is a definite positive, but it’s just too weak. Mike, I need you to get on the phone to Cardiff, tell them to check their White-Eye clutches see if this hatchling was meant to have a rider. If it does we’re going to need them flown out here ASAP, if not we’re going to find one here.” Mike was already heading for the door as she spoke, leaving John alone with Molly and the hatchling. 

“John, I know this isn’t exactly your field, but could you help, please?” Molly asked, prepping a towel, gently unfolding a wing, and beginning to carefully wipe off the remaining fluid on its body. John followed her lead and took a towel for himself, helping wipe the hatchling down. Its feet were small and somewhat webbed like cats paws, the talons not yet developed, and John took his time clearing goo from between tiny toes while Molly rubbed down its back where John noticed the raised ridge of its spine. 

“Are all hatchlings so skinny?” he asked, noticing the same sort of ridge on its neck.

“A little, not usually as bad as this. This one may have been just the weak one of the clutch, who knows,” She left John to the rubdown and started checking the rest over. “This though, I know it looks bad, this is part of White-Eye anatomy. As they age they develop spines and a bit of webbing along here, and here.” She said, pointing to the raised areas starting at the back of the hatchling’s skull and the other at about mid-back down the boney looking tail. 

“I do remember seeing some dragons back in the warzones with spines, big long ones, we always just thought those were just specially bred for it.” 

Molly chuckled, “You never saw one of these out there, these are rare, one of the species that nearly got wiped out during the world wars. Cardiff’s been helping to bring the numbers back up along with a few other smaller Aeries, actually.” She opened its eyes and checked them, listened to its heart, checked its mouth, the hatchling showing the most signs of life it had so far when she was prodding around, squirming weakly when she made it stick its tongue out, a long dark tongue like Hyperion’s. 

“There are breeding programs for dragons? Like they have in zoos for tigers and rhinos?” John asked, moving back to rub down hind legs and toes while Molly continued her checks.

“A few, most of the efforts are out with wild colonies. Rangers monitor the colonies, but there’s only so much protection you can give feral dragons, so with some species we have Aerie programs. It gets a bit complicated really--”

She was cut off by Mike re-entering. “It’s a feral release, no riders, Cardiff gave us the go ahead to select one and keep them updated on the situation.”

“Did you call him down?” Molly asked, tucking the hatchling’s wings in again.

“Already called, said the boy was on his way.” 

“Then we’d better get ready, this is going to be a bit of an impromptu ceremony.” She responded. 

They both worked together to get the hatchling out of the room, pushing the gurney out into the main barn again and towards an open stall, John following close behind the whole time. The huge stall was mostly padded, no sand at all, a small water fountain but otherwise the majority of the room the high walls created were soft. It all dwarfed the little hatchling, but it was warm and apparently it would be the stage for someone’s bonding. Mike darted off and returned with a sealed box of food for the hatchling, which he left outside for the time being, Molly prepared some water and towels for cleaning up the mess that would follow, even from what promised to be a weak feed. John watched all of the quick prep work from the doorway of the stall, Molly and Mike both lifted the hatchling from the gurney and placed it on the padded section of the stall facing the door. 

The boy finally arrived in a rush, buzzing with a nervous energy, and John wondered if he’d been told about the hatchling at all other than, ‘you have been picked’. He wore a white robe that looked rather slung on, silver threaded collar askew, drawstrings undone, he was panting as he approached them, followed by a man who looked about in his early thirties and also nervous. 

“Henry, I’m sorry this is so short notice but-”

“It’s alright Molly,” The man, Henry, said with a small worried looking smile. “I understand, Luke here’s been waiting a couple years now, just never got an egg. He’s got high marks though, good head on his shoulders, he’ll make a fine rider.” He said, patting the almost shaking skinny redhead on the back. The boy didn’t seem to even be paying attention to what was being said, his eye’s were fixed on the open stall doorway. “Go on, Luke. You’ve got a dragon waiting for you,” Henry gave him a small nudge and Luke lurched forward up to Molly.

“Please Dr. Hooper, can I see it?” He asked her politely, voice quiet and reedy as if it was just finishing cracking. John smiled at the politeness, Molly did too.

“Of course you can. Here’s the first meal, be gentle, its a little frail at the moment,” she replied laying the container of food in Luke’s arms. He gave her a nervous smile before proceeding through the door. John joined Molly and Henry in watching the proceedings from the doorway. Luke saw the hatchling and gasped, looking back at them quickly, with a look on his face John could only describe as disbelief, before facing forward again and nearly tripping over himself in his attempt to walk tall and collected, but quickly toward his dragon. 

Luke sat the case down and popped the lid, the hatchling’s eyes snapped open as well, tongue flicking out minimally for the first time without coaxing. The box contained a mix of really well cut up raw chicken and red meat it looked like, and the hatchling wanted it. It tried to lift its own head slowly from the mat towards Luke, who held the first small chunk of red. 

Then Luke made contact: he cupped his hand under the hatchling’s jaw, helping it lift its head onto his thigh and he fed it for the first time. The moment he touched its face Luke looked like he was about to cry, his face crumpled as he sniffed hard. He kept slowly feeding the hatchling bit by bit letting it take little chunks, close its mouth, and slowly swallow. The hatchling seemed to gain a bit more life as the feeding went on, still frail and shaking but moving. 

John got to watch from a distance what it looked like for a bond to start. It looked a little silly from the outside, all the emotions visibly playing across Luke’s face, but John understood what was happening in his head, that sudden surge. John could only imagine what it was like with a hatchling though, everything new. The rider leading the dragon, that was the biggest difference: John had bonded to a mature dragon, Hyperion leading him more than John leading Hyperion. John looked to the others to see them smiling as well, a look of pride on Henry’s face. 

Once the feeding was over Molly calmly approached with the water bowl and towels, and Luke didn’t appear to want to let go of the hatchling as Molly helped clean up the small mess from the shakey feeding. 

“She’s really tired,” Luke finally said, voice shaking as he stroked over her clean head. “She wants to sleep, is that okay?” he asked timidly. 

“A little girl huh?” Molly said with a smile, “of course she can, both of you are staying here for now. She’s had a rough hatchday. You just come tell me if she’s feels poorly at all, I’ll be right over in the front office.” Molly told him quietly. The whole affair was calm and quiet, John could have probably heard a pin drop in that stall. “I know you don’t want to let go of her, but please come tell us if you need anything, if anything feels off,” she added. But Luke only had eyes for the hatchling already appearing to fall asleep in his lap. 

“I’ll send for someone to bring you a few changes of clothes and necessities,” Henry told him as Luke set about gently rearranging the hatchling on the padding. With that they left the new rider alone to settle.

“You’re a new face,” John turned at the note of curiosity from the man named Henry. 

“I’m the new rider, er, field bond. John Watson,” John said, realizing they hadn’t really been properly introduced and extending a hand to shake on instinct. 

“Oh! You’re Hyperion’s. Master Henry Knight,” Henry took the offered hand with a smile just like Lestrade’s. John’s eyebrows shot up at the title, another Master who didn’t meet the now completely defunct idea of what an Aerie Master would be like. “I wasn’t expecting to see you till this evening. What are you doing out and about and especially down here with this hatchling business?” Henry asked, nodding in the direction of the stall door where Molly and and an attendant were carrying a stack of blankets. 

“Well, Sherlock pulled me away…” He trailed off, remembering the tall detective dragging that dripping suitcase around.

“Sherlock got ahold of you?” Henry’s smile fell a bit.

“It’s been a crazy morning,” John replied, now wondering where Sherlock had gone off to.

“Seems like it... Well, I’ll leave you to the rest of your day. I’ve gotta run and get Luke’s things, see you this afternoon,” With that Henry made his way out the barn doors, leaving John to wonder what it meant that mentioning Sherlock had ended that conversation so quickly. John went back to the smaller building he’d seen Molly return to after making her delivery to the newly-bonded pair. 

“Molly, did you see where Sherlock went?” he asked, poking his head into her office just inside the doors. She was sitting behind a computer typing away, looking up at John’s question. 

“He might be upstairs in the labs, might want to check there.” She pointed back the way John came. Molly directed him across the hall to the elevator and stairs up to the first floor, where the various labs were set up. The small dragon hospital’s layout being fairly straightforward, with a singular long hall down the length of the building, made it fairly easy to look around. The ground floor consisted of a series of offices in the front followed by exam rooms and further down the hall the building opened up into little padded stalls closer in size to ones seen in a normal barn. 

John went upstairs and looked in the windows of the labs, looking for the dark-haired rider in one of them. All he found were a few people in lab coats working with various bits of equipment, running tests, going about their jobs in the hospital. He spotted Mike filling out some paperwork in a broom closet-sized office full of filing cabinets, the small rosy dragon he’d seen in Mike’s picture sitting curled up on a nearby cabinet. 

“Mike, have you seen Sherlock?” he asked, looking in the open door. The tiny dragon’s head popped up, head swiveling much like an owl’s on her shorter neck, to stare at John with big black eyes. As soon as John entered the lab she was up and scuttling towards him looking a bit like if a dragon was crossed with a pill bug as her short legs scurried across the linoleum, long spade tail straight out behind, claws clacking away.

“Cherie, be good,” Mike said as the little thing flapped tiny wings and lept for John, clinging onto his thigh, and climbing up until John could grab and haul her into the crook of his good arm. 

“Well hello, you’re the one who scratched up my flatmate, huh?” John looked down at the pale belly presented and the big eyes staring up at him as she held her tail in her balled-up posture. 

“Oh, I saw him come up here while we were settling that hatchling, don’t know where he went after that though. He’s kind of flighty like that,” Mike said, in regards to Sherlock’s whereabouts. 

“Do you happen to know where I could find him?” John asked, carrying Cherie back over to the cabinet she’d been curled up on and trying to deposit her on it, only to have her dexterous little talons grip onto his still fairly grimy jacket. 

Mike chuckled at him, “She’s a clingy one once she’s on you,” he said coming over and taking her from him. She went willingly into her keeper’s arms. “But no, Sherlock, he’s a little hard to pin down. I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for him, he just shows up. Like an outdoor cat, you don’t see em’ for days at a time then they show up on your back step with a dead rat.” 

“You saw him here last night,” John pointed out. He watched Mike set Cherie down and she started towards John again before stopping and seeming to think better of it. He figured Mike was telling her not to climb him. She instead turned and began to climb Mike, clinging onto the back of his labcoat and staying there.

“I happened to be working on some paperwork here last night. The only reason I knew he was here was because he tripped over Cherie.” He sighed as he began packing up the paperwork spread across the desk. “Look, all I can recommend is to go home, wash off, and get some lunch. We’ll track down Sherlock if we need him, but you’re still kind of getting settled here. Relax for a while; running around with Sherlock is about the last thing you or Hyperion need.” 

Everyone John met so far seemed to have a poor opinion of Sherlock. Dont go near him, don’t go running off with him, don’t bother looking for him, but John couldn’t help but be curious about the incredibly intelligent, if a bit rude and strange, man he shared his living space with. Mike was right, though, he did need a wash: the fluid drying into his jacket was not exactly pleasant-smelling and at the thought of food his stomach tightened and grumbled, having only had half of his breakfast.

“Maybe you’re right,” John said looking towards the door and realizing that he didn’t really know where in the Aerie he even was. “Could you tell me how to get back to my flat? I haven’t really gotten the chance to explore yet, Lestrade hasn’t given the grand tour he promised.” 

Mike smiled, “Sure, I can help you out there, I was about to head to lunch myself anyway.” He rose from his desk, Cherie still hanging onto his back like a koala, and gathered his things. Mike led John from the hospital out into the barn, stopping briefly to say goodbye to Molly.

Out in front, the van had been moved and, without the urgency of the hatchling clouding things, John noticed a couple other huge barns with even bigger open doors to either side of the large grassy area out front. A few dragons lay out in the grass, large balls of color with a few more people tending to each of them. There were halls sized for dragons branching out of the veterinary complex, but Mike showed John the main one that sat straight across the field from the barn they’d left. From there it was actually pretty easy because that massive hall led right to the main airfield and was not a very long walk away at all. Beyond that John just asked which hall was his and could find his way from there.

They parted at a smaller hall along the way and John was left to limp his way down the dragon pit hall alone. It was as he passed Hyperion’s door he finally stopped. It had been a whole day and the bond had definitely held well, _surely it wouldn’t hurt to step in_ John thought. He slowly opened the smaller door and looked in. There Hyperion was, curled up in a ball on his mattress, but he didn’t look happy and the room was a mess. Sand scattered out of the central pool from large gouges around the edge, palm fronds knocked loose littered the floor, Hyperion’s mattress was skewed away from the wall and partially sitting on the sand pool. Hyperion’s face was a picture of upset where he was curled breathing harder than normal. 

John prodded the bond at about the same time he said, “Hyperion?” 

Hyperion’s head shot up looking to the door. He didn’t wait for John to come to him and before John could tell him not to get up Hyperion was struggling to shaking legs and hobbling towards him as fast as sore, injured legs could carry him. John felt the keen pain for himself and quickly moved to close the gap between them before Hyperion did himself an injury. He sat down hard in front of John and was instantly pushing him with his nose, a concerned low trilling vocalization emitting from Hyperion’s throat that John had never heard before. Worry pounded at the bond and John wrapped his arms around Hyperion’s nose as best he could. 

“I’m sorry Hyperion, I’m okay, nothing wrong, today’s just been a little crazy.” John murmured, rubbing Hyperion’s snout and pushing calm. “You’re okay, shhh, I’m not hurt, I just had a fright earlier,” Hyperion still pushed concern heavily onto John, not moving away and even trying to bring him closer; He reached out and, like Bellamy had done earlier in the day, pulled him in close to his breast in a hugging fashion, only this time it was more for Hyperion’s comfort than John’s.

Hyperion held on to him like that for a while and John just let him. He’d put Hyperion’s mind under enough stress worrying about him all morning; letting him hold John and comfort himself with his presence was the least he could do. Concentrating on the bond, John could almost hear Hyperion telling himself that John was okay, that nothing bad was going to happen to him, he was there and looked healthy like humans were supposed to look. 

John was finally put down some time later, and he smiled up at Hyperion, “There, feel a bit better now?” he asked petting along Hyperion’s forearm. Hyperion nodded for him with a meager ‘yes’ through the bond. Even through the painkillers John was sure Hyperion had gotten already he could feel a sharp prickling ache in his good shoulder and a dulled sensation of the slash on his thigh. Both made John worry a little about whether Hyperion had accidentally torn something and he slowly circled around, keeping contact as he went.

“I know you were scared for me, but have you hurt yourself?” John asked, looking up at the dark scabby stitches on his hind leg first. Nothing appeared to be oozing out and he couldn’t see any stitches broken. Hyperion responded with a simple ‘no’ but followed it with ‘sore achey’. As John came back around to his shoulder and found nothing but large ugly scabs and stitching there as well John understood, Hyperion had just exerted himself more than he had in a long time; He hadn’t done anything drastic, just worn himself out.

“You made quite a mess,” John said, looking at the sand and palm fronds on the floor. Hyperion managed to look guilty, posture slumping a bit as he looked away, a tinge of shame coloring the bond. The memory of Hyperion worried and angry played across John’s mind. He had gotten up and started pacing, and pacing, then visitors had come to clean his sand pit and Hyperion had been forced to lay down, irritated. The moment they left he was up again, pacing, small spikes of anger, striking the sand with his uninjured talons, spreading swaths onto the stone of his enclosure. He’d struck the trees with his tail and rattled fronds loose. In a last bit of frustration he’d bit his mat, shaking and shifting it before a heavy exhaustion set in and Hyperion lay down for good. It was after the tantrum that Tom had arrived with his daily pills. He had been so worn that Hyperion had remained lying amongst the sand and fronds on his mat, agonizing the entire time over the various levels of curiosity, excitement, fear, and worry coming from John’s end of the bond.

“Well I’m here now, I’m okay, see, a little sore but none the worse for wear,” John said, stroking the forearm nearest. “I just had a wild morning, that’s all.”

John felt he should at least start trying to clean up Hyperion’s home, since the dragon himself had pretty much expended his energy for the day and should probably stay resting. He dragged some of the palm fronds over closer to the door, unable to really lift them with both arms so just flopping them into a pile against the wall. After a while of that though, John’s stomach decided to remind him that he still hadn’t eaten much of anything and needed lunch. He looked to Hyperion sadly, not wanting to leave again so soon but needing food. 

“Hyperion, I need to go for a little bit, I need to eat,” John came back to Hyperion’s lowered head. Hyperion responded with a gentle wave of understanding. “I promised I’d come back before and I did, just remember I’ll be okay and I’ll always come back,” John said, petting Hyperion’s nose one more time before turning for the door. “And there’s always the bond,” John said with a smile as he tried pushing a comforting blanket feeling at Hyperion. Hyperion replied with his own nudge of anxious calm ‘it’ll be okay’ before John finally stepped out into the hall again. 

John’s phone buzzed in his pocket the moment he closed the door. A text popped up on the screen, “Come home if convenient. SH” it read.

“Sherlock?” John mumbled, looking down the long hall in the direction of the flat. The phone vibrated in his hand again prompting him to look as another text popped, “If inconvenient come anyway. SH” As if from far off he was reading John’s mind. Food would have to wait a bit longer; if the urgency of the text was any indicator Sherlock could be in some sort of trouble.

He kept the flow of calm across the bond wide open as he passed workers in the hallway heading as quickly as possible towards the flat. The feeling of building confidence from Hyperion, that John really was going to be okay put a smile on Johns face even as a tiny niggling worry pricked at his heart over what would prompt the text from Sherlock. _How did he even get my number?_ John thought.

The flat was quiet when John arrived. Mrs. Hudson’s doors were shut and it sounded like she was out. The building was by no means unoccupied; John noticed familiar slimy drippings on the stairs heading up to 221b. Sherlock was definitely home. 

Upstairs the kitchen door sat open to reveal Sherlock poking around inside the open suitcase on the kitchen table. He appeared clean and wore a new button up with the sleeves rolled up and yellow kitchen gloves as he fished floppy pieces of eggshell out of the slime and deposited them on a towel nearby. As John stood there watching Sherlock absorbed in his work he noticed a trio of round patches on one arm. 

“Are those nicotine patches?” John blurted as he stepped into the kitchen. _God the nutter is going to poison himself!_ Sherlock looked up at the sudden noise.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Sherlock responded serenely, as though he was absolutely content to be up to his elbows in egg sludge.

“You smoke?” John continued, rounding the table and grabbing the elbow of the be-patched arm.

“This is a three patch problem,” he snapped tugging the arm away before John had the chance to peel at least a couple of the patches of. “Now, I need you to send a text for me,”

John stared at him still poking around in the case as if nothing was wrong with the statement.

“You just texted me so that I… Sherlock I was on my way to lunch, I could have been halfway across the Aerie and you could have-” 

“There wasn’t any need to rush,” Sherlock interrupted just as quiet and serene as before. John shut his mouth with a small click. He honestly could have just ignored the text and continued on his way to the cafeteria. But that pull from before, the one that had called ‘come on it might be something interesting’ had lured him back to Sherlock, and there he stood.

“What do you need me for?” John asked. Sherlock gestured at the refrigerator, the front of which was covered in papers that John for the most part had chosen to ignore, held in place by magnets of all kinds from silly alphabet letters and tourist trap bits to straight up heavy-duty pieces that were nearly unremovable. John had made an attempt to straighten the mass of papers and take-out menus before thinking better of it after finding the hand the previous day. 

“Over there, there’s a number I need you to send a text to it.” Sherlock was pointing at a bright pink note held in place by a magnet in the shape of the Eiffel tower. 

“Why didn’t you send it yourself?” John plucked the note off and pulled out his mobile.

“Number is too recognizable its on my website-”

“You have a website?” John looked up from typing in the number to stare at Sherlock.

“We don’t live in a monastery John, of course I have a website, how do you think I get clients, carrier pigeon?” Sherlock rolled his eyes in a motion that could have easily been followed by ‘give me strength to deal with the idiot.’ 

“Fine, fine, what do you want me to say?” John asked waving the phone, screen glowing waiting for the message. 

“Right, these words exactly: ‘What happened? I must have blacked out. Twenty-Two Northumberland Street. Meet me there.’” Sherlock rattled off as he pulled something that wasn’t egg shell out of the bottom of the case, a folded shirt of some kind, followed by a few more sodden folded articles of clothes and what looked like a small toiletries case.

“Wait, who am I sending this to?” John asked, pausing in keying in the address.

“The killer, who else? Now hurry up and send it” Sherlock said, setting the items aside as well before stripping off the gloves hurrying back towards his room. 

“The killer?!” John squawked peering around the fridge in the direction of the detective who was quickly rolling down sleeves and pulling out another clean long coat from the closet visible through the open door. The man was off and running again, whatever serenity brought on by nearly poisoning himself with nicotine patches rapidly peeling away as he threw on his coat and scarf again.

“Have you sent it?” Sherlock asked urgently bustling back into the kitchen in a familiar fashion to how he’d burst out of his room that morning. John let out a long ‘errrr’ as he finished punching in the last few letters. Too long of a pause for Sherlock who impatiently asked again “Well, have you done it?” 

“Hang on! Yes, there, sent, alright?” John replied holding the phone out of reach as Sherlock made to grab it out of his hand in his haste. “How do you even know that’s the killer’s number?” 

“Who said that was the killer’s number?” Sherlock asked pausing and looking at John. 

“You just said-”

“I said you texted the killer, I said nothing about it being their number.” John frowned at Sherlock, _What the hell does that mean?_

Sherlock seemed to notice the gears grinding much slower in John’s head, and with a put-upon sigh, made a sweeping motion over the case. “What is missing here?” He asked imperiously. John looked over the table covered in rapidly congealing slime, eggshell, and clothing.

“How should I know?” John asked, Sherlock leveled a stare that screamed ‘You’re an idiot’ at him. 

“Where’s her phone? It wasn’t on her body and its not in this suitcase,” Sherlock prompted waving over the mess as though John just wasn’t looking hard enough. John honestly hadn’t been thinking about it, too impressed by all the other whirling deductions around that corpse to really notice that bit.

“She could have left it at home?” John suggested.

“No. She was an Aerie worker. She didn’t go anywhere without her phone since every member of an Aerie must have some form of long distance communication available to them. In a place as large as this being able to call on someone at a moment’s notice is extremely important. No, she would never have left her phone behind, and being part of a smuggling operation makes it even less likely she would forget it anywhere.” 

“But the killer didn’t take her wallet, why would they take her phone and leave the wallet? That doesn’t make any sense.” 

Sherlock’s face broke into a smile. “Now you’re asking the right questions,” he said, and John felt an odd swell of pride at the meager praise and the small smile.

All of a sudden John’s mobile began to ring and he nearly dropped it in surprise. He looked at the number only to see ‘withheld’ at the top of the screen. 

“I think she planted the phone on her killer; she knew she was about to die and in her last moments tried to ensure her killer’s capture.” John nearly jumped out of his skin when Sherlock’s voice appeared right over his shoulder, the detective peering at the ringing phone in his hand. “Whoever our serial killer is on the other end just got a text from beyond the grave from their latest victim. I’m willing to bet they’re panicking right about now.” The phone stopped ringing and with the silence Sherlock was off again heading out the kitchen door.

“Sherlock, Sherlock! Wait!” John grabbed and caught the cuff of his coat before he could leave. Sherlock, frozen in the doorway looked at the hand gripping his cuff with a wide-eyed stare. Gone was his aloof mask in a moment of what John assumed was shock. John let go quickly. “Shouldn’t we be calling the police?” John asked. 

Sherlock reached up and straightened his scarf in what looked like an almost self-conscious gesture. “Four people are dead, there’s no time for the police.” And that cool mask was back as he popped up the back of his coat collar. He gave John a brief grin and there was that spark in his blue eyes, that cried, ‘follow me if you want an adventure!’ before turning down the stairs. John looked back into the flat at the mess Sherlock had left, _really should be getting lunch but…_ He looked back down the stairs after Sherlock, _he could get into trouble and he seems to want me around._

John started down the stairs after him, thanking his lucky stars Hyperion’s daily painkillers were kicking in and his leg was faring better as he dashed after the frenetic detective. Sherlock was already out the door and making his way down the street, away from the dragon hall that housed Bellamy’s dwelling by the time John got to the door, coat billowing behind him as he quickly walked away.

John’s mobile buzzed in his pocket. “Get in the car,” the text ordered, with no indication of who had sent it. 

“Dr. John Watson,” a voice called from the opposite direction. John looked up to see a slim woman with long brunette hair, dressed in a well fitted black suit, stepping out of a black car.

“Y-Yes?” John glanced back at Sherlock’s rapidly retreating form before facing her as she stepped in close, her high heels making her seem to tower over him. 

“Come with me,” she said, indicating the open door of the car at the kerb. He looked at the car then back at her. The abrupt, no-nonsense text and the woman in a black car sent off small red flags of suspicion in his mind but he carefully tamped them down in an attempt to not worry Hyperion, who remained resting on the other end of the bond. 

With one more glance back to see Sherlock had vanished, John looked to the car again. The fact that it was in the Aerie at all must have meant it was safe to get into. _But the pink lady had been a member of an Aerie, Aeries have their dark corners too,_ John thought, hands clenching at his sides. He had no other real choice though, so he ducked reluctantly into the car. The woman closed the door on him before coming around and getting in on the other side. 

John cast one more look back, feeling a small lump of dread forming in the pit of his stomach as the car started down the road, taking him farther away from Sherlock. _Hope he’ll be alright he thought,_ settling back into the seat next to the woman who had pulled out a smartphone and was typing away on it. 

“Do you have a name?” John asked hoping to ease that bit of unease niggling at the back of his mind.

“Anthea,” she replied shortly.

“Oh… Can you tell me where we are going, Anthea?” he asked as the car passed quietly along the road of flats that made up the division’s living quarters .

“You’ll see soon enough,” she said enigmatically. The response didn’t do much to ease John’s nerves and the car turned a corner, entering the towering halls of the Aerie.


	6. Could be Dangerous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank Nautilicious enough for being my beta.

As the car wound through various tunnels and halls, John, unused to the massive Aerie, quickly lost track of where they were going. He was distracted wondering where Sherlock had been headed and what might happen to him. Hyperion stirred on the other end of the bond, not completely rising out of his nap, but waking enough to send John a thin feeling of concern ‘you’re still okay?’ John wasn’t lying when he said that he still was, though he tried to reign in the thoughts of what might await him at the other end of the car ride and the dragon drifted back off.

They rounded yet another corner and came to a halt in a large hexagon-shaped area. Each of the six walls were covered with the facades of tall houses, as opulent as though they’d been plucked out of high-end neighborhoods around London and plopped down there. There was a roundabout and a massive pillar in the middle with a white dragon statue atop it. They stopped before a simple yet elegant house with pale bricks, white pillars, and a stark black door. It had no overflowing flower boxes or lush green lawn like its neighbors, just a wrought iron fence with a small gate, sterile in comparison to the houses around it. 

They sat there for a moment, John looking at the house. “Well, go on,” Anthea prompted, still typing on her blackberry.

John stepped out of the car and approached the black door. It had a golden number one over a door knocker in the shape of a dragon’s head with a ring in its mouth John didn’t understand why the rather unimposing looking house caused the hair on the back of his neck to prickle with unease, but as he stood at the door the absolute stillness of the compound did nothing to ease the small clench of worry in his stomach. 

He reached up and gave the knocker a good thud against the glossy black of the door, only to have the door swing open under his hand. John looked inside. The interior looked rather pristine and simple: white walls with white moulding, dark wood floors; the most mundane bit John could see was a small table by the door with a bowl containing a hefty-looking ring of keys and a sleek vase holding an umbrella. _Well, someone’s home_ , John thought. The foyer was dimly lit only by the light shining through the sheer curtains, but further in at the other end of the hallway a brighter light was visible. John followed it. 

At the other end was a spacious kitchen, expensive, in black marble and stainless steel and more of the dark wood seen elsewhere. John’s attention was almost instantly drawn to a massive panoramic window in the attached dining room to his left. The window looked out onto a dragon pit. Unlike Hyperion’s or Bellamy’s, which both held greenery in varying amounts, this one was lavished in white and gold embellishments. An ancient oak tree stood at one end of the huge pit, its branches supported by wooden beams and spreading over the sandy center. A plush purple mat sat under the tree, unoccupied: the resident of the pit sat atop what John hoped was a short pile of fake golden coins in the sand, picking through the small metallic discs as if looking for one in particular. 

The dragon was white as snow with jet black eyes, and looked nothing like Hyperion or Bellamy other than its basic shape. The white creature was big and bulky, with scales like thick plate armor covering the fronts of its hind legs and forearms. Its tail was shorter and ended in a vicious boney diamond-shaped tip. As docile as its actions were, its face looked made to strike fear. Its snout ended in a wicked white horn like a rhinoceros, with a few much smaller ones continuing up its snout in a line. Its jaw bore spikes similar to Bellamy’s only with a faint bit of webbing between them, while on the back of its head it had a pair of massive upward spiraling horns. Down the middle of its neck there were a few more sharp white spines that shrunk in severity as they proceeded down the dragon’s neck, and a few more sprung up again along its tail. Overall it was a rather frightful dragon being kept in luxury in the backyard of the house. 

A discreet “Hem,” quickly pulled John from his staring.

Lit by the glow of sunlight through the massive window, sat a man in a black pinstripe suit, his red tie standing out underneath a rather frigid expression.

“While Damir is quite handsome, he is not the reason you have been summoned, Dr Watson,” he said, with a small nod towards the white creature outside. His voice sounded a touch nasal, with a light, serene tone. John wasn’t buying the serenity; something felt off about him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. For all John knew this man was part of the same smuggling operation as the lady in the pink coat. That thought made John even more wary. This area of the Aerie seemed much more well-off; if the smuggling extended into the upper ranks of the Aerie this man could be involved. _How high does it go?_ John thought holding the suited man’s gaze. 

“Why am I here then?” John asked, keeping calm even as he tried to think of a way out if he needed it.

“You have been seen outside of the Aerie with Sherlock Holmes,” the man said crisply, sitting up even straighter in his chair, looking down his nose at John. 

“He is my flatmate now, he asked me to help him with something. I’m not yet on duty and I’ve been led to believe I won’t for some time; was I not meant to leave?” John moved slowly into a kind of parade rest power stance, rising to the intimidation. A flicker of a smirk crossed the man’s face.

“Do sit down,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him

“I’m sorry, I would prefer to stand,” John replied, glancing at the actually rather inviting black-cushioned wooden chair. A covered plate sat in front of it. _And that is where the great black scorpions live if this is a trap,_ John thought.

“I only wish to have a little chat.”

“If you knew the morning I just had you would understand why I’m going to politely decline that offer.” John nodded at the chair, taking a step back when the other man decided to get up. 

“I know exactly what you’ve gotten up to today,” he said, walking calmly around the table. “Considering that you came from a warzone, one would imagine you would stay far away from Sherlock.” He stood tall over John, but after that initial step back John held his ground, still meeting the intimidating and peculiar man’s gaze. 

A faint scraping noise reached his ears through the window at this back and John had to break the staredown to look at the dragon outside. A large black eyeball met him. Damir had gotten up and, trailing coins out of the sand behind him, had decided to crawl up and peek into his rider’s window. The massive black eye up close was frightening against the stark white skin and horns, the iris so dark that it was indiscernible from pupil, giving John a black void to stare into. John startled at the sudden close proximity, edging closer to the table so that he faced both the rider and the white dragon.

John regained his composure a bit looking up at the man. “Who are you?” 

The man smirked. “A rider who is far your superior,” he said, a note of pompous superiority in his words. “And one who would be willing to provide a rather generous supplement to your current wages if you would do me a… a sort of favor.” His smirk curled at the edges, reminding John a bit of the Grinch with a scheme, and John did not like it. 

“What sort of a favor?” he asked warily.

“Oh, nothing strenuous. I would just like you to keep and eye on Sherlock.” The man must have seen the quick furrow of John’s brow as he frowned at the idea of being paid to spy on Sherlock. “Nothing too private, mind, I would just like to know what he gets up to day to day. I worry about him.” 

“And what is he to you?” John snapped defensively. 

“In his mind? An enemy.”

John took a couple steps back towards the door he’d come from, the black eye behind the man following him. _God, if I run will he send that after me?_ John thought, taking into account that the ceiling sat open above the pit beyond the window. 

“I think we’re done here,” John said as the man stepped towards him, closing the gap. 

“My, you do become very loyal very quickly,” the man said. His steely blue eyes wore the same look Sherlock had the night before, calculating, deducing, appearing to be able to read John like an open book. “Your former commanding officers said you were loyal, to a fault. Of course, what man with a wounded dragon runs towards the gunfire? One so loyal to his comrades he would die for them even though there is nothing left to save. Brave, that’s what they called it. What is bravery but another word for stupidity?”

“Shut up!” John bit out, eyes flicking to Damir quickly before adding, “sir.” This man was striking nerves still raw.

“Hmm or is it just that you like the adrenaline; you like seeing the battlefield again through dear Sherlock. Not loyalty then, but the poor substitute to feeling the rush and knowledge that a bullet might be waiting over the next hill.”

“No.” He’d caught his bullet, he didn’t want it again. John glared up at the man who still looked so composed and collected, his voice still just as serene as when the conversation had started. “You can keep whatever _supplement_ you had in mind, I’m not going to spy on my flatmate. We are done here.”

With that he finally turned his back on man and dragon and walked briskly towards the front door. Outside the car still sat parked on the roundabout. John looked back at the black door and quiet house from the gate. No sounds of dragon wings readying a pursuit, but that did not mean anything; for all he knew he was being given a head start.

John walked quickly past the parked car, eyeing its dark tinted windows for any movement within. He was thankful Hyperion’s pain was abated by his daily pills as he moved with only a miniscule ache in his leg. 

John left the circle of houses very much aware of the car slowly following him. It caught up to him at the first intersecting hall he came to where he stopped, trying to make sense of the signs posted high on the corners and find one pointing in a direction he thought was familiar. The back window of the car rolled down.

“I’m not interested,” John said, still looking up at the signs.

“Just get in, I can at least take you home,” replied Anthea, who was peering up at him from across the car. John cast a slightly paranoid glance at the sky and edges of the walls, watching for a flash of white scales.

After some consideration, John decided that getting in the car was better than trying to walk in the open hallways; he could put up a fight if they tried anything funny.

“Only to my flat, all right?” John said, opening the door. Anthea huffed a small laugh before going back to her phone. The rest of the car ride was quiet, John watching the halls this time, glancing up at the signs every time they slowed at a corner. They passed workers as they went and John wondered if they recognized the car, if it was a regular feature in the Aerie. So many questions he wanted to ask Hyperion, but the dragon still lay napping on the other end of the bond and John didn’t want to wake him unless necessary. 

They did come to a stop in front of 221b though, much to John’s relief. He glanced over at Anthea, eyeing her from long stocking-clad legs to wavy hair. Nothing about her screamed ‘dangerous’, but John knew never to make that kind of assumption. “You’re not going to kill me are you?” he asked a touch dryly. That made her chuckle and look over at him with a raised eyebrow 

“No, not today,” she said with a smile that read, ‘oh you silly paranoid little man’ which, in a strange way, made John feel a bit better as he exited the car to stand on the front steps. Inside the lights downstairs where on again; Mrs. Hudson was home. The upstairs lights were just as they’d been left, showing no trace of Sherlock’s return.

It was that moment John’s stomach decided to give a mighty growl for food. _He’ll come back in his own time,_ John thought, taking to heart the many times over the last day people had told him the very same thing: Sherlock would come home when he felt like it. 

He went to the kitchen and fixed himself a can of soup for lunch finally, not willing to brave outside just yet for the cafeteria, and settled in on the couch for a nice quiet evening in, at least until his meeting with the Masters. The evening wore on, Hyperion awoke from his nap while John was fiddling with his phone settings and John pushed a good strong wave of happiness at him across the bond: ‘all’s well at the flat,’ calm and peaceful, no need to worry. Hyperion responded, pleased that John was well, with a tiny niggling thread of suspicion at Johns rather overly large and fast insistence that all was indeed fine. 

The sky began to change colors with the early sunsets of fall, and dinner was fast approaching, but neither a call to the meeting nor a particular mad detective had appeared. John was preparing to head downstairs and ask Mrs. Hudson if she would like to accompany him to dinner when his phone buzzed with a text, and another, and then another. 

The case there is a tag SH

Her email use my laptop SH

Find her iphone with the email SH

Password Rachel SH

The texts came in rapid succession, no punctuation, obviously being written quickly, from Sherlock. Something seemed very off about the texts and it made him move back into the kitchen, where the disgusting case still sat congealed to the table. Another text came.

Found killer SH

“Shit,” John muttered, his pace accelerating, reaching for the tag with a speed that nearly unglued the eggy case from the table. Thankfully Sherlock’s laptop was still in the sitting room, since John’s was completely dead and unchargeable without its cables. He nervously tapped at the table as he waited for the computer to power on, looking back at the last text of ‘found killer’ with a fearful knot beginning to grow in his stomach. 

“What does that mean?” John asked the empty flat. The implications could be many: ‘help I’ve found him and I’m now trapped’, ‘I need you to come bring help I’m injured and dying’, ‘I found the killers hideout, bring backup’. The more he thought on it the more he worried, until the laptop pinged on and he typed as fast as he was able to get whatever Sherlock was trying to show him. 

Hyperion stirred on the other end of the bond at John’s worrying, questioning what had John radiating the complex mix of anxious fear. John found the website Sherlock wanted and put in the email and password. _Rachel, that’s what she had scratched on the floor!_ John realized as he stared at the spinning pinwheel of a load screen. Trying to do both the inputs for the laptop and talk to Hyperion was a little taxing as his attention was pulled in two different directions, John had trouble trying to convey what was happening: danger, someone else in danger, need to help them, aid. The dragon was being keyed up by John’s worry, his own worry for his rider reigniting as John waited for the damn screen to load.

Finally it popped in: a map, with a pulsating red dot on it marked with the pink lady’s name. 

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John said weakly. The dot was nowhere near the Aerie and was actually moving even farther away. John stared at the map for a moment and even as he watched the dot came to a halt. The sudden stop on the map made him jump up. Sherlock was being kidnapped, God, he couldn’t lose his new flatmate after only one day. John took to the stairs, rushing to his room. He wrenched open the bottom bedside drawer where his gun lay buried. Downstairs again, the dot hadn’t moved, stopped somewhere called Roland-Kerr Further Education College. John paused. The murderer took his victims to secluded places, and a college campus was big enough that Sherlock could be anywhere. How could he find him fast enough in that mess? He ran out the door, still trying to think. 

_Sherlock, oh Jesus, what about Bellamy if he gets killed?_ “Bellamy!” John said out loud, startling a passerby who had skirted around him. Bellamy could find him. Bellamy, bred for speed. The evening shift workers stared after him as he sprinted down the dragon hall, laptop under his arm. He reached Bellamy’s door, winded, and pushed his way inside. 

She was restless. The moment he saw her it was evident, even with his limited knowledge, that she was agitated. She paced her enclosure, looking at the purpling sky, tail whipping as she made low hissing grumbles. She turned sharply to face him the moment he entered with an equally razor-edged hiss. He put the laptop down and raised his hands instantly. 

“I know you are upset, I’m sorry,” he said, not willing to move any closer until she looked less like she wanted to shred him. _Why isn’t she just going to him? Her ceiling is open!_ John watched her for any signs that she’d run him off or worse. Hyperion sent him a sudden flash of ‘No!’ across the bond, accompanied by the mental image of a saddleless riderless dragon leaping out of a generic pit. He then changed the same picture to himself accompanied by Victor in the saddle and a strong positive ‘Yes!’

“You’re not allowed to leave without a rider?” John said aloud, bringing Bellamy’s erratic pacing to a halt once again as she lanced another angered look at him. 

John held up a placating hand as he pulled his mobile out. Bellamy snorted at him focusing on the small object. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay... Greg?”

“John? I was just on my way over. Time for you to meet the rest of the Masters. Is everything okay?” John blinked, his thoughts crashing together. He’d forgotten about the meeting -- not that it seemed in any way important right now -- but more importantly, John could hear car noise in the background, which meant that Lestrade wasn’t near his dragon. That meant it was up to John.

“Sherlock, he’s in trouble, he’s been taken somewhere and I’m fairly certain by a known murderer,” he blurted out.

“What?!” 

“Sherlock, he went out earlier and I just got texts from him with instructions on how to find him and that he has found the killer he’s been tracking.” There was a long moment of silence on the other end. Meanwhile Bellamy had decided to start moving towards John.

“Shit,” was the next thing John heard. “Where is he?” John had to think quickly about what the building had been labeled on the map, glancing at the closed laptop on the ground.

“A college, or a school of some kind, to the east of the Aerie.” John said.

“All of London is to the east of the Aerie, we need a name.”

A rumbling growl resonated right in front of him and John looked up to see Bellamy towering over him, her face a visage of anger John had only seen in battle.

“Bellamy, I’m here to help,” he said, backing against the door. 

“Bellamy?” Lestrade’s voice squawked from the tiny speaker. Bellamy reached out and snatched John away from the door with a quick motion of talons. 

“Greg, I’m going to have to call you back!” John yelled fearfully as Bellamy roughly slung him back over her shoulder, getting him draped over the front of the saddle. She turned and with him still inelegantly sprawled across her neck moved towards the center of her pit. She let out a savage snarl down at him. _She’s going to force me to be her rider!_ John thought as he scrambled frantically at the black leather, trying to right himself with a shoulder that was screaming in pain at the rough handling and sudden movements. When John felt himself slipping off, as he really wanted to at that very moment, she shook him back into place with a growl until he seated himself in the saddle.

John saw the belt he’d used earlier hanging from the back of the saddle and grabbed for it; if she was going to fly he wanted to be attached. It would be tragic to lose two riders trying to save one. John couldn’t do that to Greg. 

The moment he got that belt on she crouched and lept. No moment to prepare, nothing, just an instant of a crouch and suddenly she was rocketing into the air, her breath bellowing out of her chest as she worked into the sky from a single jump. John clung on for dear life, scared and, quite frankly, helpless strapped to the back of the enraged dragon. Bellamy’s silver skin was hot to the touch as he gripped her neck and tried not to look down. She was off, like a hunting dog searching a fox; she knew where Sherlock had gone. John’s heart thundered away in his chest as he tried to breathe. He reminded himself he had to do this to save a man’s life, to save _Sherlock_ ; he needed to be on her back. She lurched into a sudden dive and John thought he would be sick as she darted right towards a large building complex, a feeling of weightlessness gripping his stomach. 

Bellamy pulled up with a heavy thud as she landed in front of a building marked Roland-Kerr Further Education College. She shook him in the saddle like a dog trying to shake water, a very clear motion of ‘get the hell off me’ as John reached for the belt to do exactly that, feeling much safer on the ground. Thankfully he managed to slide off her shoulder without getting caught this time, landing hard on the ground with a force that made his knees protest. He felt light-headed, blood still pounding from the rough flight and dive. She started towards the large building looking all the world like the dragons in ancient paintings preparing to storm the castle walls, anger and ferocity radiating from her very scales. 

And somehow John thought it a good idea to stand in front of her. He rushed to cut her off before she wrecked the school, raising his hands again, his arm killing him with the motion. “Stop,” John panted. “Stop, stop, stop, I can go get him! I can get him for you!” he shouted, voice rough as he tried to catch his breath. 

She snarled again, but did back up before she crushed him. “Just stay here. I’ll bring him to you.” She hissed at him but backed away like he ordered.

John turned and ran for the nearest entrance, Hyperion a glowing beacon of concern in the back of his mind. 

“John! John!” John heard faintly squealing from the pocket where he’d stuffed his mobile, apparently failing to turn the call with Lestrade off. He picked it up. The college was quiet, basically abandoned in the late evening.

“Greg?”

“John I heard screaming, that was wind noise a moment ago, what the hell is going on?” he asked, sounding panicked on the other end. _Was I screaming?_ John thought.

“I’m at Roland-Kerr Further Education College. I need you or someone from the Aerie here, now; Bellamy is on the warpath. Bring police too.” John didn’t wait for a reply before hanging up the phone and taking off into the halls of the school.

“Sherlock! Sherlock!” he called, voice echoing down empty halls of lockers and doors. The more halls and empty rooms John came across the more that feeling of panicked urgency swelled in his chest: was he too late? was the killer already gone, leaving Sherlock choking to death, poisoned, in a cabinet somewhere? John broke into a run, calling for Sherlock constantly now. He turned the corner into an empty classroom and there Sherlock was, straight ahead through two windows in the building across the courtyard. He and an older man with grey hair stood facing each other and Sherlock had his hand to his mouth. John slammed his hands against the window, screaming, “Sherlock!!” _Oh Shit! I’m too late!_ John thought, the rush in his ears deafening as he tried to think of what the hell he could do from the opposite building. 

The gun, he could use the gun. He pulled the cool metal from the back of his waistband. He lined up the shot as quickly as possible, trying to remember to breathe, keeping steady even though the rest of him was a madhouse of adrenaline and nerves. 

Bang! 

He pulled the trigger and the grey haired man stumbled and crumpled to the ground. John’s fear for Sherlock’s life diminished greatly the moment he saw the killer fall, but he couldn’t see if Sherlock’s hand was empty. The shot had startled the detective, but had the pill pressed to his lips been swallowed? 

John didn’t have time to dwell on it as a shrill screech pierced the walls of the building, reverberating in John’s ears and leaving a ringing after the wailing noise ended. A shadow crossed the window and in a sudden flash and flurry of silver Bellamy descended upon the slim stretch of green between the buildings, battering the windows and breaking them in her wake. John watched her reach through the now empty pane and grab Sherlock’s tall lanky form in her fist. 

“Bellamy!” John cried. She swept from the small space with a leap and a clatter of claws on metal roofing. John went to the window and looked out up at the sky. Sirens blared in the distance. _Is Sherlock alright?_ John wondered as he backed away from the window. He looked at the gun still in his hand. There’d be consequences if someone put two and two together but he didn’t care, because Sherlock was alive. Still, no need to make it easy; he tucked the gun away and ducked around the building.

By the time he’d come round to the front, making sure to walk up casually, the entrance had been roped off in police tape and cars with flashing lights sat everywhere. That wasn’t the thing that made John pause, though, it was the great white dragon sitting tall and posed like a massive marble statue behind the man he’d met with earlier. He stood talking to DI Dimmock, his expression just as aloof as he’d given John earlier. A much smaller chocolate-colored dragon sat, equally poised, next to Damir, with Anthea astride its shoulders. Before he could leave and try to somehow catch a cab home with no money, Damir’s black eyes lowered to stare directly at him and he let out a rather pointed huff. The man stopped talking to the DI and looked right to John as well, as if the dragon held a spotlight on him.

“Ah, Dr Watson, I trust you are well,” he said calmly, with a small curling smile.

“John?” Dimmock turned, sounding slightly startled to see him there. 

John looked up at Damir, now no barriers between them, before screwing up some extra courage and coming closer. “What are you doing here?” he asked boldly, very much aware of his sweaty exhausted appearance next to the immaculate gear the man wore; nowhere near as form fitted as Sherlock’s or Irene’s, but still custom-tailored, with black tails on his coat. John was ready to get the man a little dirty if he tried anything, hopped up on terror-driven adrenaline as he still was, behemoth dragon be damned.

Dimmock caught his arm before John could do or say anything rash, pulling him aside. “John, do you know who that is?” he asked, leaning in to murmur it into his ear. 

“Not really, no,” John admitted, wondering why Dimmock of all people would know the man.

“That’s Grand Master Mycroft Holmes,” Dimmock stressed quietly through his teeth, as if he were a schoolboy telling the new kid who not to cross on their first day. “He is your, _and_ Greg’s, Commander.”

“Holmes?” John picked up on the name immediately, turning to look at the man still waiting prim and proper behind them. “You’re a Holmes?”

“Sherlock’s brother, yes.” Mycroft replied. 

“But you said you were his enemy,”

“No, I said he considers me an enemy; he does love to be dramatic,”

John huffed at that, “Well thank God you’re above that.” Mycroft leveled a withering glance at him.

“I am merely a concerned family member who has seen close calls such as this,” he gestured at the large claw marks raked through a section of the roof where Bellamy had all but crawled over in an attempt to take the shortest route to Sherlock without going through the brick wall itself, “happen before, albeit on a much less… expensive scale.” His nose crinkled as he surveyed the damage.

“You really are just worried? You’re not --” He stopped, realizing that he couldn’t just blurt out that he’d suspected the bloody _Grand Master_ of being in league with the smugglers.

Mycroft looked down at John, seeming to have heard John’s thought. “Of course,” he said, his tone sharp before returning to his composed self. “He gets into so much trouble, he worries Mummy to--”

They were interrupted by a police officer running towards them. “Sir! We’ve found something!” he called. The man looked to Mycroft, a concerned crease to his brows, “You need to look at this, sir.” Damir’s head had already turned towards where the man had come from; he seemed intent on going to the place but stayed posed at his rider’s side. Mycroft looked up at Damir and silently started walking in the direction the dragon was looking, the great white creature quickly rising and delicately avoiding stepping on anybody or thing as he took the lead. 

John started to follow until Dimmock stopped him. “You probably should go home,” he said. 

John shrugged him off and went after Mycroft anyway, wanting to see how this whole mess had ended. Anthea’s dragon had quietly followed the Master and now sat beside Damir who curled around a black taxi cab parked next to the college. The side door of the car sat open, Mycroft standing nearby with a phone to his ear. 

Inside the floor was covered in eggs of varying size, most of them very small but at least a few were larger like the one John had dealt with that morning. They were wrapped in all manner of bedsheets with what John recognized as heat packs piled around them. A couple had slits in them and were beginning to leak yellowish contents into their bedding. Another had a tiny grey scaley nose poking out of it. One of the larger ones white skin was splattered with dried yellow gunk; _the pink lady’s egg,_ John’s mind filled in as he looked over the frightening collection. There was just enough space in the other side for one person to have been crammed against the door. _Sherlock._

“How many others did he kill for these?” John suddenly thought aloud. 

“Go home, Dr Watson,” Mycroft ordered, his tone clipped as he pulled John’s gaze from the eggs. He snapped his phone closed and stood over John rigid and imposing. 

“But what about the--”

“It is being handled. They will be properly moved and cared for. Go. Home.” The underlying tone of ‘I am your Commander, I have given you an order, you will obey it’ rang in the repetition of the command. “Anthea, return Dr Watson to the Aerie.”

John looked back at the brown dragon behind him as it gracefully stretched and lowered itself, like Bellamy had done earlier, so that John could climb up; only this dragon was smaller than Bellamy.

“I can’t ride,” John said, very reluctant to return to a saddle for the third time in a single day. He’d had enough gut-wrenching ups and downs and would rather catch a cab even though he was standing next to inexorable proof at how bad the idea of a cab ride could turn out.

“You stole another rider’s dragon in order to get here; I believe you can take the same means back,” Mycroft replied, one eyebrow arched high in a face that showed disbelief. Probably couldn’t believe that a new rider in his Aerie would be reluctant to return to the skies. Or maybe just surprised John would admit it. 

“She stole me,” John argued, but his words came too late: the massive paw of Damir descended and closed around him in a grip bigger than even Hyperion’s. He let out an almost pathetic yelp as Damir pulled him off the ground and placed him behind Anthea’s saddle, plopping him astride the warm chocolate scales.

“But, the saddle belt!” John squawked.

“You have a belt on your trousers, right?” Anthea asked, turning to look back at him with a pointed glance at John’s waist.

“Yes, but--” She pulled up a cord from the side of her saddle and without any concern for personal space grabbed John’s belt and hooked onto it.

“That’ll do for now, we aren’t going far,” she said, settling back into the saddle. 

John looked in front of him. Her saddle wasn’t like Bellamy’s, not nearly as many rings on it, none on the back to grip. The padding wasn’t nearly as bulky or thick behind her, making John sit mostly on smooth scales. Anthea’s dragon stood and he felt himself begin to slide; he gripped for anything to hold on to and ended up with his hand on the back of her own sturdy belt, fisted at the small of her back under the edge of her coat.

Another crouch and leap and they were airborne, the smaller dragon’s wings beating faster to get them aloft before leveling off to swoop towards the grey labyrinthine structure of the distant Aerie. 

They landed at the central airfield, touching down with a soft whump into the grass. John was pressed down as close to their mount as possible, eyes squeezed shut, breathing hard, as he hung onto Anthea’s belt with his good arm and made an attempt at gripping a handful of saddle padding with the other. Once they’d landed Anthea turned to him with a light ‘hmph,’eyebrows raised. He released his grip with a small apology and she unclipped his tether, allowing him to carefully slide off to the ground in the most calm dismount he’d had all day.

“Go to your dragon,” she said with a faint inflection of command, “contact your Master and wait there for further instruction.” And with that she was gone, leaving John standing in the middle of the field, a few of the ground crew staring at him. 

Walking down the hall John heard a low whining noise resonating through the door to Bellamy’s pit. He was nearly about to ignore it and obey the order to wait with Hyperion when the thought of Sherlock returned to him. John still hadn’t gotten to check and see if he’d swallowed anything; for all he knew Bellamy was lying in her pit cradling a dead rider. 

Hyperion’s end of the bond was covered in worry, and had been for some time. _I’m alright I just need to check on Sherlock,_ John thought, pushing positive feelings towards Hyperion even as his heart clenched at the thought of possibly crossing the hall to a corpse. The other end of the bond settled a fraction at the reassurance, thoughts of ‘stay careful, be safe, don’t get hurt’ littering the bond.

John crossed the hall and knocked on the door; a dangerous growl met him as he opened it. Inside, Bellamy sat curled in a tight silver ball in the middle of a large hole, the pit’s floor sporting a dusting of sand from its hasty excavation. Her scales undulated with every inhale, her breaths billowing out of her almost like a human on the verge of hyperventilating; on nearly every exhale that quiet whine John had heard outside escaped her open mouth. Her pupils were small slits, like Hyperion’s when he was scared, and they were focused right on the door where John stood.

“Sherlock?” John called quietly, not wishing to yell and spook Bellamy into any further rash actions. “Sherlock, are you there? Can you hear me?”

“Of course I can hear you,” replied Sherlock’s muffled baritone from the center of Bellamy’s curled body. John slowly edged his way around the room, coming no closer but trying to see Sherlock. 

“Are you hurt at all, do you need help?”

“I am well enough, considering she’s got me right against her breast,” Sherlock said, sounding irritated by his confined state. John wondered if maybe Sherlock was trapped in there.

“I’d like to see you, is it possible you could get her calmed down a bit?”

“I just said I am fine, come back later. She is not in a listening mood.” John managed to get a tiny glimpse of dark coat and curls under the edge of Bellamy’s wing. She literally had him clutched to her chest, a wing tucked low to create a most likely warm, protective tent over her rider. Bellamy began growling at him the moment she noticed him staring at what looked like the back of Sherlock’s head, tucking her wing down a little further to block his view. John took that as his cue to leave.

“I’ll be back later, alright?” John called from the door. When no answer came but Bellamy’s defensive grumbles and hisses he slipped out and back across the hall to Hyperion. The couple of Aerie staff, who had been lingering in the hall with concerned looks on their faces at Bellamy’s distressed noises, had gone.

Hyperion’s head lifted immediately the moment John opened the door, a torrent of happiness and relief flooding across the bond. He stayed put and John came to him, crawling onto the mat to rest against Hyperion’s warm arm.

“Told you I’d be back, didn’t I?” John said, looking up at him with a small smile. The adrenaline from earlier was definitely gone and in its place John felt tired and more than a bit sore; his shoulder felt like it had been wrapped in a tangle of thorns, overworked in one seemingly long day. Hyperion leaned down and pressed John gently into the mat with a warm nuzzle, shifting his forearm so that John lay back. A hint of curiosity darted across as Hyperion inhaled, sniffing John in a massive breath, backing off and flicking over him lightly with his tongue.

“Smell something interesting?” John asked, chuckling at the hot forked tongue testing. John realized, _the egg from earlier_ \-- remnants of the now totally dried slime remained from where he hadn’t had a shower, only changed his clothes, and there were probably bits of the grime still in the soles of his shoes. Hyperion confirmed that yes he did smell something, but he didn’t know what it was: stronger curiosity, John knows what it is, tell story, inquiring.

That forced a small laugh out of John, “I’ve had a long day,” he said before trying to relay what happened: Sherlock, flying, murder, the hatchling, Mycroft, Bellamy. Too complex to work across the bond, John started to just tell him out loud, explaining the adventures of the day.

He was interrupted by his phone chiming a text, making him remember Anthea’s order to contact Lestrade.

“Where are you?” the text read, from the man himself.

“I’m sorry. Was trying to check on Sherlock. Making sure he is OK. I am with Hyperion like I was told to do.” John replied.

“Good, stay there,” was Lestrade’s only response.

So stay John did, relaxing with Hyperion, talking about the day as the ceiling overhead turned darker shades of purple. As night descended he got up and turned on the lights, subtle things, no blinding flood lights just soft light lamps mounted on the walls providing a white-yellow glow to the room.

John’s phone rang, startling him out of contemplating dinner. “Hello?”

“John,” Lestrade sounded tired.“I need you to stay inside the Aerie. Don’t follow Sherlock anywhere, don’t take any cabs, just stay put.” John could hear voices in the background; it sounded busy, wherever he was.

“I don’t think I’ll be following Sherlock anywhere soon, Bellamy’s got him pinned good in her pit at the moment,” John replied.

“Good, I just need you to stay down. Sherlock made a mess today and dragged you into it, we're cleaning up after him right now.”

“He stopped a killer,” John said, not entirely agreeing with Lestrade. Yes, there was a bit of trouble involved, but Sherlock did track down a serial killer and smuggler.

There was a sigh on the other end, “He also wrecked parts of a college, interrupted an active crime scene, completely ignored his assignments for the day, and forced a, no offense but, completely untrained rider to take a dangerously unstable dragon out of the Aerie.”

“He didn’t force me to do that. If anything that was my own stupidity for going into Bellamy’s enclosure when she was like that,” John replied.

“And, he made you miss an important meeting with your superior officers,” Lestrade asserted over John’s protests. John went silent for a moment, unsure. He had missed that, the Masters, _but how do they sack a dragon rider?_ he thought. Any other job he’d be demoted-- or worse fired-- for completely skipping out on the first meeting with whoever was in charge.

“I met Mycroft today,” John said quietly, swallowing, just now realizing how extraordinarily rude he’d been to a Master, _the Grand Master_ , John’s brain supplied.

“That’s to be expected; he likes to do things on a more… one-on-one level. What did he say?”

“He asked me to spy on Sherlock, and I told him to stuff it and walked out.” John felt horrified now that he thought back on it. Hyperion leaned down to nuzzle his back as he felt John’s upset.

“Wow. That’s not the normal response to his stunts... course I guess usually he’s pulling it with younger riders.” That certainly wasn’t the response John was expecting.

“You mean he’s done that before?!” 

“Well, you’ve met him now, you’ve seen. He rules by intimidation, Mycroft is smart, genius level, and if you see past the dramatics and pompous attitude you might manage to impress him, maybe get on his good side. Piss him off, though, and you’re in for a nightmare. Most people just see the wall of intimidation and ask him how high to jump when he says so.” 

“He offered me extra money to essentially spy on another rider!”

“And Victor took that,” Lestrade said coolly, “as did every other rider that’s been roomed with Sherlock since Mycroft became a Master. You’re the first person to actually turn the offer down.” _What does that mean?_ John wondered, patting at Hyperion’s nose to get him to stop nudging him. The panicked feeling gone down, Hyperion acquiesced and laid his head on the mat, cheek pressed to John’s side.

“What happens now?” John asked, not entirely sure what else to say. He still couldn’t believe he wasn’t getting sacked for missing a meeting or talking back to a Master.

“Well, your meeting will be tomorrow morning after breakfast. In the meantime do not leave the Aerie under any circumstances other an emergency and you are to clear it with me first even then. After the meeting I’ll be taking you on that tour I promised, if all goes well.” There was a pause and it sounded like Lestrade spoke to someone else, muffled enough that John couldn’t make out all of what was said beyond the mention of ‘egg’ and ‘care’. “Sorry about that,” he said when he returned to the phone. 

“Are the eggs okay?” John asked quickly. He remembered the state of the little one from the emergency bonding earlier, and he wouldn’t wish that on any dragon.

“Oh? you know about these...” Lestrade asked with another tired sigh, “of course you do. Most of them are fine, some of the smaller ones not so much.” He sounded upset.

“They’re not dead, are they?”

“Yeah, 3 smaller ones are dead in their eggs, too cold for them even with the heat packs once the car’s heater was off for too long.” John heart sank at the loss of three of the intelligent and sociable creatures; it was hard to think that they didn’t make it out of the egg just because of a stupid smuggler. Hyperion let out a low mournful noise next to him, a small moaning sound in his throat as he bumped John lightly. John leaned into him harder, pushing calm across the bond ‘shh, its okay’.

“What about the others?” he asked. At least there were those.

“Well, the twin to the one that got brought to Molly is still intact; it’s going back to Cardiff. There’s a couple here that are definitely staying with us since they’re basically hatching right in front of me. We’re going to have some new keepers soon. The rest are going to Molly so we can try to figure out what’s in them and where they came from. God, none of these have their marks, they’ve all been cleaned.” The last bit sounded like Lestrade was talking more to himself, a note of frustration in his voice. 

“At least Sherlock caught the guy who did it.” John said trying to put forward something positive.

“The man is dead; we found him in one of the rooms Bellamy wrecked. Somebody shot him. Couldn’t have been Sherlock; Bellamy wouldn’t have freaked out like she did if Sherlock had been the one to fire the gun.” 

“Does Dimmock have any ideas of who shot the cabbie?” John figured that if he hadn’t been pulled in for questioning by now that he wasn’t a suspect. He was rather a victim himself, in a way, hauled off on a terrifying flight by a hysterical dragon. With any luck the mystery would remain unsolved. 

“Not a damn clue,” Lestrade responded, sounding distracted suddenly. “Look I’ve gotta go, we’re pretty much done here.”

“What about Sherlock?” The thought popped out of his mouth quickly. He seemed healthy and fine when John talked to him but with all the trouble he’d caused…

“Huh?” 

“Well, I mean what’s going to happen to him?”

“You leave Sherlock alone, I’ve gotta figure out what I’m going to do with him...” Lestrade drifted off in a huff. “Anyway, go get something for dinner, I doubt you’ve had time to get any. I’ll see you tomorrow,” and with quick ‘bye’ he hung up.

John leaned against Hyperion’s cheek, laying the phone down on the mat. He breathed out a large sigh as he pressed his cheek into what John realized now was the warmth unique to Hyperion, that helped warm him through and felt like home. “Today’s been a long day, Hyperion,” John said again tiredly, as his stomach decided to grumble for food. Now that Lestrade mentioned it, he hadn’t had anything to eat for dinner since the texts from Sherlock had interrupted any plans.

“You won’t mind if I go get some food will you?” John asked, “I can’t go without eating for days like you.” Hyperion let out a sniff accompanied by a small poke of humor at the back of John’s mind. He pushed a positive yes across, nudging John off his cheek.

“I’ll be back,” John reassured as he hauled himself from the mat, giving Hyperion’s nose a farewell pat. As he ambled towards the door Hyperion pushed a soft hope for his safety, not exactly a pure worry, just a light thought that translated into ‘be careful, small, easy to hurt’. John pushed back with his own reassurance before leaving and heading off towards the cafeteria.

The sun being completely set by no means stopped the Aerie in its tracks. While the dragons’ hallways were kept fairly dark for the sake of the residents whose pits were attached to them, the rest of the complex was lit similarly to regular streets. Wall-mounted lights made to look like lanterns cast the halls in yellowy white. John passed a few workers still out and about who carried torches dutifully aimed at the ground. While the halls were like streets the smaller corridors seemed more like alleyways, more dim and shadowed, and in the moments when John was alone and all was quiet a small shiver ran up his spine and made him walk a little faster.

The cafeteria was actually fairly empty once he got there and from the looks of it dinner was in the process of being cleaned up. A few people sat around talking, a pair of riders still in their gear and looking rather windswept were finishing their food, and a whole round table was taken by a group of nestlings in their distinctive uniforms, books and papers scattered all over the table and murmuring amongst themselves. The bar was open, a few people sitting at it nursing their drinks. 

John approached the counter and saw the same man there from the day before when he’d eaten with Mrs Hudson. “Hello, Mr Angelo.”

The man’s face broke into a wide grin. “No need for the Misters,” he said, coming around the counter. He suddenly grabbed John in a burly bear hug, startling John but making Angelo laugh. He let go and chuckled while John straightened himself out. “You’re that new rider I saw yesterday,” he said. “You and Sherlock have been getting into some trouble, I’ve heard.”

John gaped at him. “Does news really travel that fast around here?” he said incredulously.

Angelo just chuckled again. “You two have been the talk of the Aerie today ever since word got round that Sherlock brought in a newly hatched baby this morning. Master Knight was talking about it over dinner.” 

John was a little shocked by that, the idea that if anything happened it almost instantly somehow got around the Aerie, but then it made him wonder, there were people that were interested in what Sherlock got up to?

“Sherlock’s kind of in trouble right now,” John said.

“From the stories I’ve heard I’d say he’s been getting into trouble since he was a nestling, but he’ll figure himself out of it, he’s really a good man,” Angelo replied.

“You’re one of the first people I’ve heard say that,” John said, actually a little surprised that one of the cafeteria cooks of all people thought so highly of Sherlock.

“Well, he helped me out a few years back, proved that I wasn’t stealing things out of the kitchens and caught the guy that was.” Angelo was all wide smiles and laughter and his mood was a little infectious, making John smile too.

“That sounds good of him.”

“Speaking of Sherlock, I haven’t seen him around in a few days, you wouldn’t happen to know if he’s been eating at home?”

“Er, no actually, I just met him last night and I haven’t seen him eat anything.” John admitted, Sherlock hadn’t stopped moving really it seemed since he woke up that morning, if he’d even slept at all behind that closed bedroom door. That gave John an idea. “I could take him dinner if you’ve got anything left.”

Angelo’s grin seemed to grow impossibly wider. “Of course! I’ll make up something for the both of you. You’re his partner now, right? Maybe with you he’ll put some weight on.” He slapped John on the back in a friendly gesture, knocking a cough out of him, before heading back into the kitchens behind the counter. 

“Flatmate, I’m his flatmate,” John corrected, but Angelo was already out of earshot through the doors. As John waited he could hear the various clangs and tings of the average kitchen, Angelo shouting for something in the back. He didn’t have to wait long before he returned with a pair of decently-sized covered takeaway boxes. It smelled of Italian food, oil and garlic and marinara. 

“There you go, dinner for two,” Angelo said, putting the containers into a paper bag for John to carry and pushing it across the counter to him.

“Thank you, Angelo, I’ll make sure he gets it,” John said, picking up the handles and heading off.

And so John had figured a way around Lestrade’s instruction to leave Sherlock alone; the man needed to eat, especially if he hadn’t eaten anything all day. And if he ate as little as Angelo made it sound John was surprised Sherlock didn’t just up and faint after all the running he got up to. He roamed the halls, which were slowly quieting as the night progressed, the lovely smell of food right under his nose making his stomach growl more. A couple of flashlight-carrying workers remained in the dragon hall once he returned, their beams giving just enough light to see by. The lights were on inside Bellamy’s pit, a dim glow around the edges of the massive door. 

He knocked to announce his presence and a soft grumble from Bellamy was his answer. He opened the door, slowly peeking inside. The lights were on low and the ceiling, drawn closed, helped to bounce it and illuminate Bellamy in a soft silvery gold. She sat uncurled but still alert and watchful in her sand. Sherlock lay stretched out on his back between her forearms, divested of his boots, coat, and waistcoat, his head pillowed against the thumb of her paw and his palms pressed together in front of his lips. For a moment John just watched the detective lie there: flat stomach rising and falling slowly, long fingers now and again tapping together, long dark eyelashes fanned closed, that long body finally resting after a day of frenzy. The fact that the lights were on at all meant he had managed to relax her to the point where she would at least let Sherlock out from under her for a moment. 

“Sherlock, is it safe to come closer?” John called, noticing that Bellamy was glaring at him the moment he entered the room. There wasn’t an immediate answer to his question and for a moment John thought Sherlock might actually be asleep, until with a small gasp he opened his eyes as if waking from a trance.

“Yes, no sudden movements,” he drawled quietly, turning his head just enough to look at John. As John approached, Bellamy’s eyes shifted to the bag in John’s hand and she let out a loud grumble, stopping him at the edge of her sand. Her paw turned over under Sherlock’s head and she dropped it to the sand, scooping both him and the sand he was lying on closer to her body. Sherlock huffed in indignation.

John noticed the direction of her gaze and set down the bag, unpacking its contents and showing the plastic and foil packages to her. “It’s just food, it’s okay. Angelo sent it, I don’t know if you’ve met him, he’s good, he doesn’t want to hurt Sherlock either,” John told her calmly as she craned her neck closer, nostrils flaring and tongue flicking out to inspect the offering. 

Sherlock himself was climbing over her paw while John had Bellamy distracted, and John saw him ruffle himself trying to get the sand out of his hair and clothes from where she had essentially buried him. When Bellamy seemed satisfied that the containers were harmless she backed down a bit, keeping a sharp eye on her rider as he strode past John, leaving a faint trail of sand which was still falling out of his clothes. He returned with a pair of simple chairs from one of the alcoves. Sherlock sat them down next to the sand facing Bellamy, similar to the chairs back in the flat facing the fireplace.

John sat down, pulling the bag over and digging for utensils and happily finding two bottles of water stashed in the bottom. When he looked up Sherlock was sitting too, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, staring off into the distance in Bellamy’s direction. He tried to hand Sherlock one of the boxes of food when Sherlock finally spoke.

“I don’t eat when I’m on a case,” he murmured, sounding sulky.

“You’re not on a case right now, and you need to eat,” John insisted. Sherlock gave him a look that all but said ‘I know that, idiot’ but took the offered food anyway, straightening up in his chair a bit. The moment he popped it open his nose crinkled.

“This one’s yours,” he said, holding the box over to swap with the one John had yet to open.

“How can you tell?” John asked, just going with it and trading food. What was in the box looked plenty appetizing enough, a simple carbonara with a chunk of bread on the side and a small cup of some sort of ham and bean soup tucked into the corner. Sherlock sniffed and opened his own revealing a much different item of food. His had been filled with stuffed shells, pasta, meat and cheese all swamped in bright red tomato sauce. His contained a slightly larger wedge of bread and the soup looked rather heavy too, if the bits of meat and vegetable pressed against the lid were any indicator.

“Angelo is always attempting to feed me more than is strictly necessary, especially if he’s been listening to the Aerie gossip lately.” He peeled the lid off the soup, prodding a chunk of carrot. 

“Well, if you don’t eat a lot and look skinny as a rail like you do, people tend to do that,” John said, following suit with his own soup.

“I eat, but the stomach slows the brain down digesting. Thus, less eating around cases.”

“And if a case lasts longer than a day or two?” John prompted, eyebrow raised.

Sherlock’s face formed a pout around the mouthful of soup he’d taken before he swallowed and the face remained. “Mrs Hudson forces me to dinner with her… Bell nags until I eat something,” he said, nodding towards the dragon, who was still watching them intently as they ate.

“I’d imagine she feels it too, when you starve like that.” John said. Sherlock didn’t have a response for that and just continued picking at his food. John continued to eat his in silence as well until too many questions for Sherlock had piled into his mind. 

“How long have you had her?” John asked first, that one being the most tame and least likely to make the man choke on the piece of bread in his mouth. 

“Twenty-three years as of January.” Sherlock replied.

“She’s Hyperion’s age?” John said happily, he had no idea how hatchings worked, but the closeness seemed like a good thing.

“Hmm, two months his senior, but yes.” Sherlock drawled looking at her. She looked like she was beginning to fade, like a child who stayed up past their bedtime and struggled to make it just a few more minutes. She so obviously wanted to stay alert and watch over Sherlock, but she seemed to be falling asleep, her head lolling to the side, eyes half-lidded only to pop open wider for a moment and slowly fall back towards closed.

They both fell quiet as they finished their meals. Sherlock left a fairly large portion behind. At least he packed it back up, pulling the bag closer to him and putting the resealed box away to be eaten later. 

“Why were you about to take that pill?” John finally asked, watching him carefully. He realized the question was very much out of the blue but needed to ask it anyway. “You seem so fond of Bellamy, why would you do it?”

“I’ve already had this conversation with her,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Have it with me, I can’t read your mind like her, I saw my flatmate about to commit suicide. What was it then?” John asked. Thinking about it again made him worried for Sherlock. So few people seemed concerned about what he did, what were the chances of a rider becoming depressed or even suicidal to the point of acting on it?

“Why don’t you go ask Mycroft?” Sherlock spat, sitting up in his chair a little straighter, his eyes narrowing at John. Bellamy’s eyes popped open again, paying attention to her rider’s upset.

“What?” John was caught off guard by the sudden topic change.

“You are his lapdog now; I don’t want your interrogating,”

“I’m not anybody’s lapdog, what the hell are you talking about?” John asked again, not taking kindly to being called a lapdog of any sort.

Sherlock snorted. “Asking questions like that? Obviously you took the bonus he offered, a little extra money to monitor me, and now you’re fishing for personal details.”

John was taken aback. “You’re an idiot, you know that?” John retaliated. 

That seemed to stop him in his tracks, causing the detective to raise his eyebrows. “Oh? And how do you come by that deduction, Dr Watson?” he hissed.

“I didn’t take the money,” John said.

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to look affronted. “What?”

“After the morning I just spent with you!? What makes you think I would accept money from a shady man, who I do not know in the slightest, to essentially spy on you?” John cried.

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, looking a bit like a fish as he tried to form a comeback of his own and failed. He paused, seeming to collect himself again, then said, “Previous data led me to assume you took it. You are an outlier...”

“I’m not a complete asshole,” John replied, “if your brother would like to know what you are up to he can get off his high horse and come down out of the clouds to socialize.” Sherlock snorted a laugh there, his face crinkling as he bit his lip to hold it in.

“Highly unlikely,” Sherlock chuckled, trying to regain his composure. Smiling looked good on him.

“Now will you tell me what was going on with that cab driver?” John asked. Sherlock’s spirit only seemed to lift higher now that John had admitted to not taking the bribe.

“He was playing Russian roulette,” Sherlock started, taking in a breath to calm the slight giggles he still had from whatever mental image John had conjured. Even Bellamy huffed her own small sleepy laugh, very similar to Hyperion’s, a throaty ‘huh,huh’ sort of noise. 

“Russian roulette?”

“The pill, he had a second one, that’s how he’s been killing the other smugglers. He was one of the pick-ups gone rogue, found out he was going to die to an aneurysm and decided to take as many of the smugglers with him as he could. The pills were his idea of fun.”

“One good, one bad” John said his eyes widening.

“Precisely,” Sherlock said, with a wide grin that made little crow's feet appear at the corners of his eyes, a true smile at the fact John followed and was interested. “He said he had a sponsor of some kind, someone who was providing the pills and paying him extra for every smuggler he killed on top of the eggs.” 

“But how could you have known the pill you had was the safe pill?” John asked suddenly.

“I had the right pill,” Sherlock said confidently. This time Bellamy snorted for a completely different reason, a short hard huff that blew sand away from her nostrils, letting out an upset sounding whine.

“But how did you _know_?” John insisted, hoping Sherlock hadn’t been willing to risk whatever kind of poison had been in that capsule on a guess. When Sherlock didn’t answer right away he considered his fear confirmed. “God you were actually going to risk your life on a total guess!” John said, exasperated, “and what about Bellamy, you don’t love her enough to not take stupid idiotic risks like that?!”

“She is my queen!” Sherlock bellowed suddenly, the happiness melting from his face at the accusation. “She has been my daughter, my charge, for the last 23 years, and wants for nothing; do not presume to know a rider’s love after less than a month of knowing a bond,” Sherlock said imperiously, actually rising from his chair and towering over John.

“You have a lousy way of showing it then!” John said, rising to the challenge and standing as well, forcing Sherlock back. “I saw her earlier, she was panicking, and angry, and scared. Yes, I’m new, but I’m not even bound to her and I could see it. She was trapped here and unable to come and help you. She was so afraid for you that she actually grabbed the first human to walk into her enclosure and threw them into the saddle just so she could come and get you!”

John knew he was shouting, but after seeing her like that and Sherlock not seeming to care, it didn’t sit well with him, and the fact that he’d been the one thrown into the saddle very much against his will--he wanted Sherlock to know nothing was okay about the position he’d been put in.

“You actually flew her to the college?” Sherlock said, backing down a bit, curiosity blooming on his features.

“She flew me, I had no choice in the matter really,” John said, anger still seething. Sherlock’s face suddenly lit up with realization.

“You shot the cabbie!” he cried, startling John into backing up, nearly knocking over the chair.

“I, er, How?” John stuttered not entirely sure if he should admit to that and wrong-footed by Sherlock’s sudden conclusion. Sherlock grabbed his right hand, pulling it up to his face for inspection, even going so far as to smell him, before John could yank it away.

“You own a gun, illegally of course, where did you hide it?” Sherlock asked.

“I-- I hid it… In Hyperion’s pit,” He pointed in Hyperion’s direction. “Threw it in one of the flower pots for now.” 

“Oh good.” Sherlock said.

“What do you mean ‘oh good’?” John, still riled up from the shouting, was thrown by Sherlock’s quick return to a somewhat normal attitude. No response came, Sherlock only took his chair, subtly prompting John to take his own and follow, proceeding to replace it from whence it came, John following confusedly behind. Bellamy, if not entirely asleep, looked the part: her eyes had finally closed and her head completely lolled on her side, in contrast to Hyperion who John had only really seen sleeping in a tight ball. 

When Sherlock spoke again it was with a calm quiet, “Will you be heading back to the flat?” as he picked up the bag containing his leftovers.

“The flat? Sherlock, we’re not done here?” John said incredulously, surely he wasn’t trying to act like it all hadn’t happened. A raised eyebrow asked him to continue, a silent ‘I’m listening’. 

“You can’t do that again, you putting yourself in danger just to prove you’re clever, or whatever the hell was going on in that thick skull of yours, you scared the hell out of her”--he waved at the sleeping form of Bellamy--“and me,” John added.

“It was under control,” Sherlock said, voice even as he met John’s eyes, ice blue gaze focused on John.

“No it wasn’t, you had to text me to find you and--”

“I told you to find the phone. You’re the one who decided to run off and get Bellamy, you could have told Lestrade and sent him or Sally just as easily,” he interrupted calmly.

“And let you poison yourself,” John interjected.

“I am alive and well--”

“Only because I shot that man and Bellamy smashed the windows.” All John could think was, _how many times had something like this happened before?_ Mycroft had said things like this occurred regularly, but did they usually end with him almost dying?

\--and recovered the eggs.” Sherlock finished with a huff. John was quiet for a moment and Sherlock actually moved away. Rather than stand around and wait for John’s comparably slow mind to get his thoughts together for the next question, he actually wandered over to a large cabinet and began rummaging around in it for something.

“Do you do this all the time?” John asked quietly. 

“Hm?” Sherlock emerged carrying a stack of blankets and a pillow.

“Risk your life?”

“All riders risk their lives, it’s part of the job description. The moment that eggshell cracks you’ve signed yourself permanently into a life of danger,” Sherlock said, dumping the blankets into John’s arms and then pulling all but two away.

“But you voluntarily sling yourself at it.” John looked at the blankets he’d been given, nice soft things, one knitted with an orange fish scale pattern the other powder blue.

“And? Better than playing postman to the rich and corrupt,” Sherlock replied, walking out into the sand towards Bellamy. He lightly patted her on the nose, running his hand up her snout to pet her cheek, a small smile John could only call affectionate spreading across Sherlock’s face. Her eyes hazily blinked open before looking at him. She gave a big stretch like a cat, all four legs sticking out straight and back arched, before relaxing and starting to lazily roll upright. Bellamy got up and wandered towards her mat at the far end of the enclosure, tail dragging a snake’s path in the sand behind her, and resettled loosely curled up on it. 

“What are these for?” John asked lifting the blankets in his arms. He realized Sherlock was setting up blankets to sleep on the mat next to Bellamy.

“I would think that obvious,” Sherlock replied. 

“I have a bed.”

“You won’t be using it tonight,” Sherlock said, laying out his own sheets on a corner next to Bellamy’s forearm. That got John’s attention; what was that supposed to mean? Surely Sherlock wasn’t proposing that they sleep together.

“Excuse me?” John sputtered, eyebrows raising as he glanced at the sheets in his arms and back at the detective still unfolding a bed for himself. Sherlock looked up quickly at John’s scandalized tone.

“You are staying with Hyperion tonight, aren’t you? It’s certainly the best course of action considering the high amount of stress he’s endured today. There should be blankets there already but they’ve not been laundered recently.”

“Oh! Oh, er, yes, I was planning on maybe staying with him,” John replied, face heating a little in embarrassment to think Sherlock might attempt to bed him after only knowing each other for less than twenty-four hours.

“Good, turn the lights off on your way out,” Sherlock said, thankfully not looking back and not seeing the light blush coloring John’s face. And with that Sherlock flopped into his nest of blankets, wedging himself against Bellamy’s leg and burying himself until only the black mop of his hair was visible, underlit by the faint glow of a smartphone. That was that then, Sherlock’s unsubtle way of ending a conversation.

John looked down at the bag of leftovers Sherlock had left at his feet and back to the blanket mound that was Sherlock, questions still abuzz and begging to be asked. It was obvious Sherlock didn’t want to be talked to, though, so he’d leave them for now. John took the bag and left, turning Bellamy’s lights off and walking out into the dark hallway. He saw maybe a torch or two still out an about but otherwise dark and quiet. He dropped the blankets off just inside the door with Hyperion, and made his way back to the flat with the food. 

Mrs Hudson was still awake when John got there, her door sitting open just to the right of the stairs. John decided to check in with her just so she wouldn’t worry.

He knocked on the doorframe, “Mrs Hudson?” and she looked up with a surprised expression.

“Oh, John, I’ve been hearing about you all day, are you alright?” She asked, getting up from her sofa where Angus sat next to her curled up in a tight gray ball with a wing over his face, sleeping.

“I’m fine, Mrs Hudson, nothing worse than some soreness” John replied honestly; he really hadn’t sustained any damage throughout the day’s adventures, a fact he hadn’t really noticed until Mrs Hudson had asked.

“And what about Sherlock?” she asked, sounding equally as worried about the mad detective as John felt.

“Oh, he seems fine too, nothing bleeding or broken,” John reported; if Sherlock was sporting anything worse than the scratches from the night before John hadn’t seen them, or Sherlock had been very good about hiding them.

“Good,” Mrs Hudson said with a smile.

“Just wanted to stop by and say I’m staying out with Hyperion tonight. Lots of stress and scares today, I just don’t feel comfortable leaving him alone,” John explained, hoping it didn’t sound strange that he’d rather sleep out in the pits heated by his dragon than inside in his nice warm bed. Mrs Hudson just smiled.

“Of course, dear, from what I’ve heard I don’t hold it against you, make sure you grab something warm to wear, don’t want to catch a cold,” she said in understanding motherly tones. John couldn’t help smiling.

“Thank you. I’ll be back here tomorrow, I’m sure,” he said, starting up the stairs for his things. “Oh, and Sherlock’s out with Bellamy tonight too,” John added.

“Good for them,” she said, “after the day they’ve been through I’m sure she could use the company.” It almost sounded like she knew about the latest trouble with the cabbie at the college too, but John didn’t ask. 

John continued up and gathered a change of clothes and some sleepwear before heading right back out with a small, “Good night Mrs Hudson.”

Hyperion was dozing out in his pit curled up in his usual ball when John arrived. Not entirely asleep, so that when John gave the bond a gentle nudge Hyperion’s eyes opened. John knew the pit well enough that he could traverse it with the lights off, so blankets in hand he set about making a bed right next to Hyperion on his mat. Hyperion pushed sleepy happiness and contentment across the bond to him as John laid out blankets and his own pillow against the side of Hyperion’s paw.

Changing quickly, he bundled down into the bedding against Hyperion. It was a while before John could actually fall asleep, body tired but mind still wanting to go over the days events. And so he lay there and talked to Hyperion, sharing pictures across the bond with the dragon’s sleepy mind until he himself finally drifted off to thoughts of Sherlock and how he was going to protect the energetic madman who had drawn him in so unexpectedly.


	7. The Masters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much Nautilicious for being my beta.

The next morning began with John’s alarm startling both him and Hyperion awake. In the night John had become bundled into the blankets Sherlock had provided. An odd dream about falling into the sky through open doors along a stone corridor repeated through the night, making him wind into his sheets. Tan paws caught and tossed him back and pale long-fingered hands wrapped round his arms and set him back on his path along the hall; both kept the dream from ending in screaming terror like the night before. 

Before John could reach for his phone to kill the alarm Hyperion’s paw raked him off the mat, blankets and all. John thumped down into the sand with a small cry, alarm still squealing away as he tried to wrestle both himself and the mobile out of the blankets.

“Oh Jesus bloody… Hyperion,” John called, scrabbling in the sand and only making the tangle worse. A single claw descended and hooked the blankets, lifting John off the ground just enough for the mass to loosen and John to come rolling out, phone plopping out along with him nearby as Hyperion gently shook it loose. John dove on it, finally silencing the thing and seeing the message he’d left for himself of ‘go get breakfast.’ 

John rubbed his face with a groan, which only wiped on more grit. The bond was humming with curiosity as John looked up at Hyperion’s looming head in the grey morning light. “Sorry Hyperion, food is calling,” he said, holding the mobile up to show him the tiny glowing screen.

John slowly rose, dusting off sand as he went. He dragged the blankets with him, getting them out of the sand grains until he could have them beaten out later. John washed his face in the frigid fountain water. His shoulder felt awful, sore and swollen and stinging when he rotated that arm. His leg was not much better and he ached for his cane, wishing he hadn’t left the blasted thing at the flat. That pain came from Hyperion though, and once John’s face felt clean, he turned to look at his dragon, who was shakily standing and pushing his mat back into place, off the sand. Hyperion seemed to notice John looking and quickly sat back down, a combined thin wave of guilt and discomfort crossing the bond as though John would be upset by his activity. 

“Its okay, if you feel like you can get up don’t let me stop you, it’s good, yeah?” He smiled, feeling a ripple of happiness at Hyperion’s willingness to get up and move on his own. “Just don’t overdo it, okay?” Hyperion nodded. “Good, now I’ve got a meeting to go to, I’ll be right here if you need me.” John tapped his head with a smile, “no excitement today. I’ll be with the Aerie Masters for a little while, I’m sure you know them, totally safe today, no need to worry.” John spoke in a calm tone, reaching up for him, and Hyperion met his hand with his nose. Hyperion’s end of the bond glowed with contentment, positivity radiating across the back of John’s mind. He was happy, the Masters would keep his rider safe this day at least. 

John gave his scales a fond rub before separating and moving away to change clothes for the walk back to the flat. Even as he left there was a faint niggling of ‘be careful’ across the bond as though Hyperion were simply used to that being his way of saying ‘goodbye’ to his rider. John pushed back his own reassurance that nothing bad would happen as he shut the door. 

He looked across to Bellamy’s door, still completely shut, John had to resist the temptation to wander across and check on the pair, make sure Sherlock was alright. He shook his head, Sherlock was a grown man; he didn’t need John checking on him like a guard at the door. He’d seen Sherlock bundled into bed right underneath Bellamy’s protective gaze, he was fine. And so John pulled himself away, resuming his grey morning trek back to the flat.

Showered, in new clothes, and cane in hand, John made his way to the cafeteria. Mrs Hudson and Angus were out of the flat already and he suspected he’d see them getting breakfast. The room was a hive of activity; having actually arrived earlier he now got to see what appeared to be the majority of the Aerie filtering through the massive space littered with its mismatched tables and chairs. Indeed, Mrs Hudson was there at a rather small but busy table, Angus’ head in her lap. She spotted John first, calling him over as he looked for a place to sit with his food. 

“Mrs Hudson, good morning,” he said, as one of the table’s occupants pulled over a chair for him. 

“Good morning dear, you’ve had people asking after you all morning, I was hoping you’d be by soon,”

“Oh?” John was about to ask who.

“Dr Watson, I presume,” a woman’s voice murmured softly in his ear. John jumped away, spinning to look at her, and was met with a familiar face.

“Irene?” 

“Oh, so you do remember me?” She laughed at John’s surprise. “Or did you think I’d forget that wild night over Kandahar?” Irene leaned in and purred, making John blush and quickly look at the rest of the table who were all looking at them. 

“That’s not what it sound’s like,” John said, edging away from her fractionally as he looked back to her. She wasn’t in her second skin riding gear, but her casual wear wasn’t any less revealing as he got an eyeful of cleavage from her plunging neckline, a long necklace dipping down to accentuate with a small ruby. Everything relatively form-fitting even off duty.

Mrs Hudson patted his arm with a fond chuckle. “We know, dear, she’s been telling us little tidbits about Hyperion and you over the last few days.” 

“Days?” John was caught between the two amused women and he ended up facing Irene again “How long have you been here?” he asked, suddenly remembering that she had said she was one of his ‘escorts’ home.

“I got in a couple days after you, you didn’t think I was going to fly all that way in one hop did you?” She kept grinning, clearly entertained by John’s flustered shock. 

“I, well, I mean how was I supposed to know?” John muttered, he should have thought about that, her smaller dragon wouldn’t be able to fly all the way in one long flight like the big carriers, obviously.

Irene’s red lips thinned to a simple smile. “Aw, you’re still new, you’ll get the hang of it soon enough.” Her voice took on a light-humored coddling tone, as if she were speaking to one of the nestlings, and John’s face heated more, this time in embarrassment. 

“Wait a minute, you’ve been telling people about me?” John abruptly realized where the gossip had originated.

“Aerie-folk do love a good story,” she replied teasingly.

“You and I talked one time.” 

Irene leaned in close. “I saved your life. I’m the sole witness to your rescue. I could make you sound like the greatest lay of my life, or the most colossal bastard to ever walk the face of the earth, as far as most of this place is concerned my word on the topic of you is gospel.” She purred quietly. John gulped at her proximity and breath on his ear.

“What have you told them?” John asked, licking his lower lip and glancing at the rest of the table, who’d resumed their own conversations, Mrs Hudson sneaking Angus a bit of egg left on her plate.

“Oh, nothing quite as juicy as that. People are just mostly curious about you cause you are from the field, the novelty will wear with some time.”

“Irene,” he prompted.

She sighed, “Only that you were an army doctor, and that you got shot, didn’t say where, leave a little surprise for the showers, Aerie ladies like a man with a few scars.” A couple of other ladies who had started listening to Irene’s raised voice, as if they hadn’t already been trying to hear her whispers before, nodded and chuckled, one of them looking John over like she was already trying to strip him with her eyes and find said scar. “Told them about the night I harrowingly rescued Hyperion and yourself. I know you don’t understand it yet, but Hyperion is much bigger than Dahl, it wasn’t easy having her carry your big boy.”

“Dahl?”

“Dahlia... oh I never did introduce you to her properly did I?” Irene said, while pulling out her mobile and looking at it. “Well, some other time. I have somewhere to be.” She took her own empty plate and rose, then bent down next to John to whisper something more. “Oh, and I may have mentioned a little bit about you having something of a fear of flying,” and with that she walked quickly away, John spinning in his chair to stare after her.

“It was you!” he cried indignantly, as she gracefully strode through the tables on black high heels. John remembered Tom telling him about hearing a rumor saying as much. Irene had been the origin. He felt he should have known. The only others who could have started the hearsay would have been the flight crew, and he hoped they at least had the decorum to not mock the wounded they carried home.

“Was what, dear? Mrs Hudson drew him back to the table where a couple of the occupants were staring at him after his sudden outburst.

“Sorry,” he apologized, looking down and concentrating on his still full plate. “Nothing, Mrs Hudson,” He said before tucking in. Quietly eating as the rest of the table’s occupants chattered amongst themselves and, for the most part, forgot he was there altogether. 

John was headed back to the flat when he got a text from Lestrade: “Meet me at the airfield.”

“On my way now,” he replied, piling his plate alongside the others waiting to be washed and striding through the doors with as much confidence as his limp would allow. He took the path he remembered best to get from the cafeteria to the airfield, the one Sally had taken his first day there. John still had to pause and glance at directional signs, but following the flows of Aerie traffic and the massive open-air halls brought him to the right place. 

Morning on the airfield looked hectic as ever, groups of dragons preparing for their various tasks. One huge carrier sat at the end of the field, gigantic harness being lifted into place with cranes and winches. Other dragons of varying size and color were coming and going on rainbow flurry of wings in the morning bustle. 

Small teams of people moved onto the field from alcoves to help remove and carry the harnesses of the ones coming in. Some of the ones leaving had people following them and putting on their gear and saddles on the field, which made John’s brain swerve briefly towards Sherlock’s Bellamy, who had had her saddle on the entire time every time he’d seen her. _Wonder how Sherlock gets her dressed up?_ John thought, he couldn’t imagine any of these teams wanting to work with Sherlock long enough to help, or worse: what if Sherlock upset one enough to sabotage the rude detective’s saddle. John shook away the disturbing thought, surely no one here hated Sherlock to the point they’d want to do him permanent damage. 

A swath of little dragons and young people sat to one side, close to where he stood, an older woman standing before them with her own much larger companion at her side. John didn’t see Lestrade immediately and so, after pulling out his mobile to tell him he was there and waiting, contented himself with watching the young riders helping their baby dragons with calisthenics. 

He’d never really gotten to go through that with Hyperion. Though he was sure there’d be some form of therapy in the dragon’s future, John would never be able to physically lift Hyperion’s wings and share the moments like the fledglings were having with their charges, teaching them how to move and work their new growing muscles and learn how to hop and prepare to fly. Maybe if John had started there, been a nestling at an Aerie, the fear of flying would have never taken root and grown to the severity it had.

Hyperion on the other end of the bond caught on to John’s depressing thoughts and gave him a happy nudge, the thoughts of ‘together now’ and a sense of ease flowing across. John had to concede to that point, at least Hyperion was already trained and matured. As much as John felt the desire for times like the younger riders were sharing with their dragons, he knew he was not quite as youthful as them, and with his injuries factored in as well John was glad he’d gotten the seasoned Hyperion.

“You were summoned here as well?” rumbled a voice nearby, pulling John from his thoughts to see Sherlock plopping himself down on the bench next to him. The man was in completely different, clean, attire but he looked rather ruffled, hair fluffed as though he’d been blown dry by a leaf blower with some attempt to tame the curls. John suppressed a small snort of laughter as his eyes landed on the sulky face under the fluff of hair. 

“I’m waiting for Greg if that’s what you mean,” John replied, noticing that today Sherlock wore less form-fitting and more comfortable looking clothes: dark colored jeans that didn’t look like they were suffocating his bollocks like the riding leathers of the day before, and a pale blue long sleeved button-up that matched his eyes without the buttons seeming like they were about to pop off from the strain. These were casual by Johns standards, he didn’t look like he was trying to show off like a dark, leather-clad peacock. Even his calf-hugging boots had been replaced by simple well worn in black loafers. The detective leaned back against the wall with this long legs extended similar to his lazed posture from the night before. 

John became aware of the fact that Sherlock was staring back at him out of the corner of his eye, same bored look on his face, but eyes very obviously considering him before they darted away to focus out on the airfield. John felt his ears start to burn and also turned his attentions back to the field, self-conscious of the fact that he’d just been eyeing up his flatmate. Not to say Sherlock wasn’t attractive, but it felt rude to notice those sorts of things about him, considering John had to live with him. 

Minutes passed in an uneasy silence, watching the Aerie go by until Lestrade finally pulled up in front of them in a brown jeep.

“Good morning boys, John... Sherlock,” Lestrade leveled a less than cheerful face at the taller rider still slouched next to John. “Get in, the rest of the Masters are waiting at the Council Hall.” John couldn’t help but notice that the pair of them sitting on the bench, looking up at Lestrade, looked an awful lot like they were a pair of schoolboys waiting to be scolded by the headmaster, which in Sherlock’s case might be close to the truth. Sherlock just levered himself up and hopped into the back of the Jeep without a word. 

“Not meeting in some remote tower only accessible to dragons?” John asked with a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood as he got in the passenger side. Sherlock chose that moment to extend his long legs to rest his heels on the shoulder of one of the seats. Lestrade smacked the ankle next to his head, “Behave will you? For two seconds!” he shouted, only making John realize just how well that image of the two schoolboys in trouble matched Sherlock. Lestrade’s face cleared from the frown he’d aimed at Sherlock when he looked to John. “Nah, everything in the Aerie has to be accessible by foot, or car, somehow because not everyone’s got dragons that can carry them.” Lestrade started the car and set off along the wide stone pathway around the grassy field. 

“So, I’m not too informal as I am, right Greg? Should I have dug out and pressed some fatigues or something a little more uniform-ish?” John asked, as they drove down one massive straight hallway.

“You’re fine, honestly they all just want to meet you and talk a bit, every rider and keeper in the Aerie passes under our noses.”

“And evaluate you for transfer to either another division or out of the Aerie,” Sherlock chimed in quietly from the back seat.

“They are not!” Lestrade said, looking like he wanted to reach back and clip Sherlock over the head. “Anyway, what with your special circumstances they’re especially keen to see you.”

But Sherlock’s statement stuck with John. “They wouldn’t have me transferred out--”

“No, Hyperion’s got some rehab to go through, but we have gotten back dragons with worse injuries than him and kept them. Yes, we do have transfers, but usually they are of their own volition.” He shot a quick glare at Sherlock over his shoulder before returning focus to the wide empty hall. 

The building at the end of the hall was an imposing structure with high walls and pillars and spires, draconic imagery and insignias everywhere, with big wooden doors propped open at the center. It reminded John of the old stonework buildings seen all over London and within the Aerie; it exhibited the same intricate stonework seen around the edges of the airfield and the front gates. This was a very public building; any visitor might be led through its doors and as such it had to be designed to show off the affluence and power of the Aerie.

Lestrade led the both of them inside, Sherlock bringing up the rear with his still moody face. The inside was very much like a cathedral as well with high-arched ceilings that echoed their footsteps. 

The room they were led to was massive and made John stop in the doorway. It was a lecture hall, raised seats all facing inwards towards a curved table at the other end of the round room. The chairs all sat empty, their green velvet cushions and wooden desks making the room appear even bigger as John cast his gaze over them. Dark wood paneling, tall windows, and marble pillars drew his eye up to the white dome of the ceiling and the bright chandelier hung there, until Lestrade nudged him forward. There were nine others already in the room sitting at that curved table. 

_Surely those aren’t all Masters,_ John thought in a moment of nerves, as Lestrade left him standing before them. Lestrade took a seat at the end of the table. John glanced around for Sherlock and found the man had stopped at the top rows of chairs and taken a seat next to the door, as if he were ready to get up and leave at a moments notice.

The Masters sat above him, their table slightly raised on a short dais in the pit of the room, but then John noticed familiar faces. Sally sat to Lestrade’s right, and Anthea sat next to Mycroft who was seated at an even further raised desk behind the others; looking even more like a judge. Henry sat at the opposite end of the table from Lestrade looking just as open and friendly as he had the day before. The other five he did not know, though one of the men’s faces looked familiar.

“Dr. John Hamish Watson, welcome to London Aerie,” Mycroft announced, his voice carrying well in the amphitheater-like bowl the room created. “You’ve been called here that we, your superiors, might better get to know the man who made the first successful field bond in the last fifty years.”

“Mycroft, you can quit it with the stuffy talk, its not like we’re about to sentence the man to hang.” John stared at the new speaker, an older looking woman wearing a clean white lab coat and scrubs. She motioned for John to come closer and when he stepped up the the table she stood and leaned over to give his hand a good firm shake. “Master Jacqui Stapleton, head of the medical branches both humanoid and draconic, welcome Dr. Watson,” she said, before looking at the other occupants of the table. “Well, go on, introduce yourselves.” 

The man to her right rolled his eyes. “There’s something to be said for a little formality,” he said gruffly before leaning forward as well for a handshake. “Master James Sholto, Military branch, and this is my First Officer Stephen Bainbridge.” He indicated a thin, dark-skinned man sitting next to him who followed suit in leaning forward to greet John with a quiet, “hello.”

“I’ve heard you were a military man before getting hitched to Hyperion,” Sholto continued as he sat back.

“Yes sir, I was a field medic Captain with the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers,” John replied, spine straightening at Sholto’s tone.

“Not that you can recruit him, James, Hyperion’s done his time and he’s not going out to the battlefields again,” Stapleton said. 

“He wasn’t flying battle formations, even when he was out,” Sholto sniped.

“He shouldn’t have been out in the first place,” she snapped back.

“If it matters, I honestly don’t want to go back,” John piped up from below them, looking up at the two Masters beginning to bicker. Oddly, it only added to the informality of the meeting and John felt like the mood lightened a bit even though it was an argument.

“It’s not even a matter that is remotely close to being considered,” a soft voice said from Stapleton’s left. A younger looking woman of Asian descent with long dark hair tied back from her face spoke, “Master Soo Lin Yao, I head the public transit branch,” she said with a smile. “This is my First, Andy Galbraith.” She indicated the pale, curly-headed man next to her.

“Hello there, we work with your Master pretty often, customs and shipping and all that, mostly we work with the people outside the Aerie, local and international flights.” He was a bit more forward than his Master, but friendly all the same; so far it seemed only Sholto and Mycroft were the real stern intimidators of the bunch.

“We might see you around a bit more once you and Hyperion get up and working again.” Andy added, “but from what I hear that’s going to be a while. No rush, right Lestrade?” He called down the table. 

“Hyperion won’t even be attempting flight again for at least a few months,” Stapleton interjected before Lestrade could reply, “I’ve seen his files.”

“Just saying,” Andy murmured.

“He’s got to start eventually, Jacqui,” Sholto said, over her shoulder.

“And I never said he wouldn’t. Don’t forget I blame you for the fact that he’s in such a sorry state to begin with. Hyperion should have never left this Aerie-” A loud clacking from behind them cut short the brewing row before it could really take off. 

“Hyperion’s health and wellbeing are not the reason for our gathering,” Mycroft said from his higher perch. 

The quibbling Masters looked down at John. “Our apologies,” Stapleton said, “we didn’t finish our introductions.”

“Thank you, Master Stapleton,” John said in acceptance of the apology, even though he didn’t mind. They had been about to talk more about just exactly what Hyperion had been doing before John had found him and Victor, he would have liked to hear more before Mycroft interrupted.

“I’ve already met the rest of you. Master Lestrade and Commander Donovan of course, and Master …” John blanked for a moment on a name, he knew the man at the end of the table was Henry but that wasn’t his last name and the soldier part of him, even in the informality of the situation, wouldn’t let John say ‘Master Henry.’

“Master Knight, Henry Knight,” Henry provided even with his positive demeanor his voice sounded tinged with a slight edge of nervousness, which John was beginning to wonder if some level of anxious was his default setting. “We met briefly after that whole hatchling debacle yesterday,” he added, for the rest of the table’s sake. “I keep the Aerie from falling apart,” Henry said, with a small laugh and smile.

“Henry,” Soo Lin chided.

“What? I’m the head of maintenance and supply, keep the place clean, well stocked, and fed,” his voice squeaked a bit as he made his case to his fellow Masters. John snorted lightly, trying not to laugh at his superiors. 

“So what does Mycroft do then? Other than sit in a taller chair.” John asked, raising an eyebrow at the GrandMaster, who puffed up in indignation.

“I am the head of all the Aeries in the United Kingdom,” Mycroft said, with barely concealed pride.

“He manages the finances.” John turned at the sound of the lazy baritone to see Sherlock had relocated to the desks just behind him.

“Part of my duties, brother mine,” Mycroft sneered with a sour look on his face. 

“Sherlock, we’ll get to you in a minute,” Lestrade said from his end of the table.

“John, Masters, Masters, John, you’ve all met now. Get on with it, I have things waiting at home.” Sherlock groused, becoming even more the petulant child than John had ever seen him before in the presence of his brother and commanders. 

“Fine. John, take a seat, Sherlock approach!” Lestrade ordered, obviously fed up with Sherlock’s whinging. Sherlock stood and meandered to the center before the table while John sat down obediently, suddenly feeling apprehensive about what was about to become of Sherlock. The fact that Lestrade had dragged him in while all the other Masters were there couldn’t bode well for the rider.

“Sherlock Holmes, you have been called before the Masters of London Aerie in order that you may face the accumulation of charges mounted against you.” Lestrade spoke formally, his voice ringing with a commander’s tone that caught John’s full attention but only made Sherlock stare dully forward. 

“Item one: there are more than twenty recorded instances of you landing outside of designated landing zones, including a few where your dragon flew unaccompanied. There are several counts of both minor and major damage to civilian property due to these unacceptable landings; the latest accounted for is the most severe on record. Item two: you have neglected your duties for the last several weeks and have only completed a handful of the tasks assigned to you since your last disciplinary hearing. Item three: a rather astonishing list of complaints from Aerie residents and riders that has only been growing longer as time passes.” Lestrade held up a thick folder of papers with little bits of sticky notes and tabs littering the edges. “These complaints include reports of unauthorized entry and interaction with another rider’s dragon while in their pit, destruction of Aerie property, vehicular theft, and multiple complaints of verbal abuse and slander.”

“It’s not slander if its true, and I did not steal those vehicles; I merely moved them to another location within the Aerie. If I were any other Aerie member it would have been seen as a prank,” Sherlock said flatly. 

“Pranksters don’t pick locks and practice their hotwiring skills on the intended target’s cars,” Lestrade replied, “ and as for the myriad other charges, not to mention how many times we’ve already convened over your actions in the past, how do you plead?” he asked. Sherlock didn’t reply, just stood there looking bored with the proceedings in silence while Lestrade waited for an answer.

“Sherlock Holmes, you are confined to the Aerie until further notice. Bellamy will be put under 24-hour surveillance. You will only be allowed to fly her within the training fields under the supervision of another rider--”

“Master--Master Lestrade, you do remember what happened last time you grounded him, right?” Henry asked frantically, leaning forward to look down the table. 

“I’m not assigning him to help the butchers again, Master Knight.” Henry looked about to open his mouth again, but Lestrade added, “or the kitchens.” 

“Well, you’re not assigning him to work with Dr. Hooper, he’s got all the bedside manner of a mace to the head.” Stapleton chimed in.

“Yes, Master Stapleton,” Lestrade said, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “I remember.”

John watched as each of the Masters looked from one to the other, as if each silently passed Sherlock back and forth between them. The mental tennis match of ‘you take him… no you take him’ played out clearly on their faces. 

“He’ll be a tutor,” Mycroft finally said, making all five of the others look up at him. John saw a rather wicked smirk spreading on Mycroft’s face. 

“Sir?” Lestrade asked.

“John Watson is grounded for an indeterminate amount of time and in need of an instructor to rapidly catch him up on our ways. Who better than the grounded rider he shares his living arrangements with?” Mycroft reasoned out for them, all five redirecting their gazes over to John, before coming back to the bored face of the rider in question. John saw a spark in his eyes, though. Sherlock’s face said disinterest, but his eyes were flicking from Mycroft to John. 

“Sherlock Holmes, you will be John Watson’s tutor from this day forward. You will accompany him to his courses and provide supplemental practice with Bellamy and Hyperion--” 

“Sir, do you really think it wise that Sherlock attend the courses himself?” Sally suddenly asked, turning to look up at Mycroft. “Think of the distraction,” she hissed.

“I believe John will keep him in line. The longer it takes for John to become airborne the longer Sherlock will remain within the limits of the Aerie. Being a disruptive nuisance goes against his interests,” Mycroft replied, smug smile still in place. John saw Sherlock’s mouth twist downwards. If John hadn’t already known there was tension between the brothers it was certainly alive and well within the council chamber, with Sherlock glaring daggers at the GrandMaster above him. 

The meeting ended in awkward apologies after Sherlock had stormed off, prompting Lestrade, with Mycroft’s permission, to go after him. By the time John and Lestrade caught up to him in the jeep he was already a good distance down the hall heading to the airfield.

“Sherlock, what the hell is wrong with you?” Lestrade shouted, cutting him off, “You can’t just do shit like that and not expect to get in trouble for it.”

“The Masters are reprimanding me for doing my job,” Sherlock replied, deep sulking face still in place, even as his eyes darted from Lestrade to John.

“Your _job_ is to serve the Aerie first, Sherlock! Whatever _detective_ work you do, you do on your own time, but while Bellamy still lives and breaths you follow _my_ orders first!” Lestrade said, smacking his own chest to get Sherlock to look at him. “You acting like a immature child does nothing but make the other Masters wish they could ship you off to Siberia and everyone else in the Aerie want to strangle you. Do you know about the petitions? The most recent one suggested that we send you to run post for the station in Antarctica. That one managed to get 97 signatures before we took it off the community activity board.”

“I need the work!” Sherlock yelled back, baritone rising for a moment. “Without it my brain rots. Being some wealthy imbecile’s carrier pigeon does nothing for the boredom. I need the game, the puzzle, I need the cases!”

“Why can’t you go and work with the police, then?” John asked Sherlock, interrupting the shouting match in the thankfully deserted hall. Lestrade looked at him like he’d forgotten he was there and took a moment to reply.

“It's just not the kind of work we do,” Lestrade answered. “Mysteries and the like. Sure, we’ve had to invite them in if we find something illegal in the post--one of the dragons found some vases full of cocaine once, that wasn’t pretty. But we don’t go dropping out of the sky and landing in the streets like you do, Sherlock.” Lestrade turned the conversation back to the detective.

“I’ll land her on a rooftop somewhere then,” Sherlock snarked back. 

“That’s not the point, Sherlock. You know full well that landing her anywhere outside of designated areas is a danger to the public. She might be a lamb to you, but what happens if one day she missteps, crushes a car or worse, a person. What if she gets into the state she was in yesterday and goes on a rampage in the city, do you know what that would do to the reputation of the Aerie? Think of what the news would say, what the government would do.” 

“You’re being ridiculous and paranoid, Lestrade,” Sherlock said quietly.

“I’m serious, Sherlock, there’s already loads of videos out there online, you’ve made the news a couple times already, and we’re lucky that it has been in a somewhat decent light. But it only takes one slip-up.” Lestrade waved his finger in Sherlock’s face, trying to get the rider to focus and pay attention to what he was saying as John watched Sherlock’s gaze drift off elsewhere. “You read the papers. You can’t have missed the stories. Do you really want to be the reason Aeries in this region get shoved backwards into the dark ages? Doubt Bellamy would be so happy about being chained up and muzzled all because you two couldn’t obey orders and something happened.” Lestrade wasn’t shouting anymore but his voice still carried across his extreme agitation with Sherlock’s flippant attitude. 

“I do help people you know, byproduct of catching serial killers and all manner of criminals.” Sherlock said, in response to Lestrade’s tirade. “You do remember my first case…”

“Yes, who could forget. I know you are doing good with this whole detective business, but you put yourself in situations that are incredibly dangerous, and we end up with incidents like what happened yesterday. As it is its only a miracle nothing has come of that yet in the public sphere. The Aerie is paying for the damages.” 

“You mean Mycroft is paying off anybody involved in the repairs to keep quiet.” Sherlock added. Lestrade only sighed, seeming tired of trying to argue with the rider.

“Look Sherlock, I know you do incredible detective work. Ian tells me about the cases you work on, but you need to do your duty to the Aerie first. Now I need to give John a tour, if you don’t want to join us you’re walking home.” Sherlock just huffed a chuckle and proceeded to step around the jeep and continue walking down the hall.

“I’m sure I’ll see you later,” Sherlock called over his shoulder. Lestrade sat back in his seat swiping a hand down his face with another sigh.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said from behind his hand before he sat forward and started the jeep.

“How long has he been like that?” John asked.

“That’s just Sherlock, he’s always been a disobedient prick. All the potential for a good man wrapped up in genius and a massive ego,” Lestrade replied, driving past said rider and out towards the airfield. 

“Now, enough about Sherlock, I need to show you around. If you get lost there’s a map in the glove compartment, otherwise I can drop by the library and have them print you off a copy to study.” Lestrade said as they skirted the field. 

“Library?” John prompted, he’d never seen any books about dragons or anything pertaining to Aeries and their inhabitants-- at least none that weren’t in the fiction sections.

“Of course, every Aerie no matter how small has some sort of library, even the little ones and outposts have a few shelves for reference manuals and the like,” Lestrade said, turning a corner.

John was left to ponder what sorts of books the Aerie had as Lestrade began the tour. Much of the thing was driving, with only a little walking in the halls that were too small for the car. The Aerie as it turned out was set up much like a lopsided bicycle wheel. The larger dragon sized halls spiked off from the airfield like spokes, but the field was not dead center of the Aerie and sat situated closer to the south, like the yolk of a fried egg skewed off to the side.

John did end up pulling out the map. Lestrade’s division was actually situated in the small region to the southwest of the field. Close by, but wedged into a curved horn shape against the great outer walls. All of the living quarters ran in a ring around the inside of that massive wall. The cafeteria was situated roughly between Lestrade’s and Soo Lin’s regions of the map. Soo Lin held a much larger region above his, and her’s and Sholto’s divisions took up the largest sections of the Aerie.

Lestrade explained that Soo Lin, being Master of public transit, needed an absolutely massive portion of space simply because of the sheer size of the dragons she commanded. The giants that carried huge loads of people all over the world. Technically the Nordics belonged to her division, but were shared between her and Lestrade as the massive cargo carriers were often used for post and shipping.

Sholto had the other huge contingent in the Aerie, the military flights. Lestrade said the reason that area was so quiet was because of how many occupants were out at the wars. Most of the residents that were home had been injured and sent back, and were now waiting their turn to get called out, or were home for mating and nesting purposes. Which John had all sorts of questions about but decided against asking them; he’d learn about all of the nuances in due time.

“That’s where I’ve seen his face before!” John cried, as they drove through the mostly silent dragon halls of Sholto’s side of the Aerie, “he shows up on the telly now and then, does press conferences.”

“Yeah of all of the people in this Aerie I think he’s had the most time in the public eye recently, what with the wars and all.”

“Never really says much, just shows up and says the war is going well, and disappears again,” John mused, looking up at the large red and gold insignia bearing a sword that decorated the large doors in the area.

“Sholto can’t really say much. He mostly does those appearances as a formality, gotta show the public that we are actively doing something in the war efforts and not just holed up behind our walls over here,” Lestrade replied.

“As someone who was on the ground, it would have been great to know just how many dragons would be falling down around our ears before getting shipped out,” John said, thinking back to just how many huge scaly corpses he had dodged. He shivered, goosebumps raising all over.

“Can’t say that sort of thing to the public, John.” Lestrade replied, seeming to notice how the memory was affecting John and changing the topic once again.

The next area was Stapleton’s, most of which consisted of large barns and grassy courtyards with only a handful of actual pits. Lestrade showed him where the nesting grounds were: large well covered warm domes, each with floors covered in sand and viewing balconies. There were people there actually tending to a couple dragons and their eggs. The human hospital was in the same area of the Aerie and John was sure he’d be visiting soon, having to meet with his therapist about his shoulder.

The school was wedged in between Stapleton’s division and Henry’s, classrooms and courtyards straddling a massive hall that led out to the training fields. Lestrade showed John where the library was in that area. The library wasn’t particularly impressive on the outside but it made up for it on the inside. Books lined the walls of the long two story building, dark wood paneling covered the walls where books didn’t, and the high vaulted ceiling held large chandeliers that lit the building with a warm glow beyond the natural light of tall thin windows. John felt he could get lost among the shelves and shelves. The librarian at the desk had his own little hummer, a bit smaller than Angus, helping him put away the books.

“A lot of the children love hiding away in here when they first arrive,” Lestrade said quietly. 

“I can see why,” John replied, noticing the comfortable nooks with squishy-looking old chairs, a number of them actually occupied by nestlings. If the amount of books in the sitting room back at the flat where any indication John was willing to bet money that Sherlock had been one of those children. 

“You want to know anything about dragons, it’s probably in here somewhere. We’ve got regular civilian stuff too, of course, but we boast one of the largest collections of draconic literature in Europe.” John caught a thinly-veiled note of pride in Lestrade’s voice as he continued onwards. 

The next stop was the training fields, an absolutely massive area that stretched out far as the eye could see beyond the walls of the Aerie, rolling grassy hills and forests. Lestrade told him that the whole area was uninhabited by humans and considered a national reserve. The fields were so expansive that a dragon colony actually lived on the premises. Lestrade mentioned that the wild colony was well kept by rangers and used to train other riders for dealing with situations where interacting with feral dragons might be necessary. John had never seen a feral dragon before and he supposed that was a good thing, though he was curious as to how different they were compared to the bonded ones he’d met so far.

Henry’s section came next, his division taking up a portion of the Aerie only a little bigger than Lestrade’s on the southeastern side. Lots of warehouse type structures took up his division. Most of the dragons John saw in the area were shorter, broader species that looked very different compared to any of the others he’d seen, musclebound and bulky, if any were flying it was on smaller rapidly flapping wings. They were pulling and hauling huge loads of things from the airfield on one side and a wide bank of loading docks on the other. 

Lestrade showed him to the butchers, which he proclaimed was one of the most important parts of the Aerie. The first thing John noticed upon entering the large swinging doors marked with large signs reading ‘No Dragons beyond this point’ was that the building was spotless. When John had imagined a butchery the size that would be needed for a place as gigantic as London Aerie, his mind had conjured a dank smelly place covered in blood and entrails of slaughtered animals, the smell of death featuring prominently in his mental construct.

The place was extraordinarily clean, cool, and for the most part scent-free, the only real smell being no worse than a meat counter in a grocers. Carts and bins of varying sizes sat waiting near the front to be picked up and loaded for feeding, at the time they were visiting it wasn’t particularly busy, only a few people in picking up smaller containers. The cleanliness made sense though; Sally had said that anything leftover was clean enough to use for the human meals. Lestrade did say that it did get a little on the messy side when they were truly busy on feeding days; with so many people coming and going with cartloads of raw meat, there were bound to be at least a few bloody bootprints and trails.

“So if I need to find you or any of the other Masters?” John asked, still studying the Aerie map on their way back to his flat, finding smaller things, like the grocery stores, and public showers, and the taxi pick up points along the edges for people without cars wanting to go into the city.

“You contact me or Sally first if you need to get ahold of a Master, we’ve always got our phones on at all times no matter where we are.” 

“And that roundabout of houses Mycroft kidnapped me to?”

“Yeah those are our quarters, mine’s the one with the window planters to the left of Mycroft’s,” Lestrade said rounding the corner onto their street. John had felt Hyperion push a little wave of contentment across the bond as they passed, knowing that John was nearby and happy that he was still calm and at ease. “You shouldn’t need to come to us there though, we’re usually out working. Last time I had someone come running for me while I was home there’d been a bomb found in a shipment, big enough to blow a crater in the airfield, about a decade ago now.”

“A bomb!” John hadn’t thought about that. He had heard of threats of explosives in peoples mail, of course, that sort of thing always made the news. But the idea of getting a bomb on that scale right in the middle of the Aerie was a frightening thought.

“No one was hurt, it was taken care of and deactivated. A tense evening of course, but we haven’t had any since. Threats now and then, yes, but nothing as severe as that one,” Lestrade didn’t sound as upset about it as John thought he should. _I guess they do see a little bit of everything here if they can be that flippant about the fact that they were nearly blown up,_ John thought, folding the map up and looking towards the flat, where he saw a panda car parked.

“Oh no,” he heard Lestrade say as they pulled up behind it.

“What?”

“That’s Ian’s car.” Lestrade replied, jumping out of the jeep closely followed by John.

“Oh, thank heavens you’re home!” Mrs. Hudson said meeting them in the foyer looking worried; Angus sat at the foot of the stairs looking intently up them, frills plastered to his body apprehensively. John could hear shouting coming from upstairs.

“You put that back!” Sherlock bellowed, as they both reached the top of the stairs. Dimmock and Sally stood in the kitchen going through cabinets while Sherlock berated them from the sitting room.

“Sherlock, you can’t take evidence from a crime scene!” Dimmock replied, as he put down a large clear bag containing the zipped up suitcase.

“Those aren’t evidence!” Sherlock spat at Sally, who was holding up a jar full of yellowy-green fluid with what looked like finger bones in the bottom.

“What the hell is this?” Sally asked holding the jar gingerly away from her face. 

“An experiment. Put it back.” Sherlock ordered, pointing at the cabinet from which she’d produced the jar. John saw the edge of a nicotine patch just under the sleeve of the outstretched arm, and John took that moment to step forward. _Not again,_ he thought, reaching for Sherlock. The detective moved away, swinging his arm out of John’s reach. 

“What are you doing?” John asked 

“What am I doing?! They’re the ones who decided to raid my flat while I was out!” Sherlock rounded on John, only just barely keeping from spitting on him with the vehemence in his voice. Sherlock’s usually aloof mask was gone, a wildness in his eyes as he watched Dimmock and Sally rummage through the biohazard that was their kitchen. John grabbed Sherlock and made the rider lean down and look at him.

“Sherlock, tell me what is going on,” John said calmly. 

“They are ruining my experiments,” Sherlock replied quietly, through gritted teeth.

“It’s a drugs bust, technically,” Dimmock said from the doorway.

“And I am clean,” Sherlock replied, “I’m not even smoking,” he added, ripping back his sleeve to reveal a lone nicotine patch, much to John’s relief. 

“That doesn’t mean much,” Lestrade said, standing next to his husband and rolling up his sleeve to reveal a nicotine patch as well.

“I don’t care, you’ve got what you came for, get out.” Sherlock pressed, pointing at the stairs.

“It matters if we find something,” Sally said, just before she recoiled and slammed a cabinet door on something. John knew what was down there: in amongst the relatively neatly ordered cleaning supplies was a large glass jar of eyeballs. He didn’t know what species they came from, but it was still very disconcerting to be shuffling through trying to find the soap refill and coming across a jar full of things staring back at you.

“I am clean!” Sherlock asserted, narrowing his eyes at her. 

“If you would stop stealing evidence from crime scenes I’d be more willing to take your word for it,” Dimmock replied.

“I didn’t steal it, that hatchling was in the case. I borrowed it in order to study it, I had no intention of keeping it.”

“That’s not the point, Sherlock! It is evidence from a crime scene, you should have left it there and alerted us to its location.”

“He is right, Sherlock, we could have left it there,” John said quietly.

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock grumbled. “Fine, you have the bloody case, now get out of my flat,” he tried again, glaring at the interlopers still standing in the kitchen.

“Sherlock, if there’s anything else here-”

“There’s nothing else here! I borrowed the case in order to study the amniotic fluids and eggshell, I didn’t take anything else.” Sherlock was losing steam, still angry, but tired of being bothered and aware that the temper tantrum wasn’t making the other people in the flat leave. 

“Fine,” Dimmock said, “but Sherlock, you pull one more stunt like this again I will personally see to it that you never get access to any crime scene again.” he gathered the plastic bag filled with the gooey pink suitcase and headed down the stairs. 

“Sherlock, we’re not done talking about this.” Lestrade said, turning to follow Dimmock down.

“I know,” Sherlock replied coolly. John could tell the detective had run out of steam and just wanted to be left alone now. 

Then Sally rounded the corner. “You’re disgusting you know that?” she said, glancing back at the kitchen before following the other two down, leaving John and Sherlock alone in the quiet flat. 

“I know,” Sherlock said quietly, too late for her to even remotely hear him as he trudged over to the sofa and flopped down on it staring up at the ceiling. “Next time I’ll just leave the thing to die in a back alley somewhere.” Sherlock mumbled up at the white plaster.

“You don’t mean that,” John said quietly. After all the shouting he felt the need to match the stillness in the flat.

“How would you know?” Sherlock replied lazily, his baritone voice gone a bit gravely as he relaxed into his sprawl on the sofa. “In the last 48 hours you have seen me being bandaged up, I have forced you to go flying, against your will might I add, taken you to see a corpse, you have seen me nearly swallow a poison capsule, and just a couple hours ago watched me stand before what equates to our highest court within the Aerie. What about all of that brings you to the conclusion that I wouldn’t just abandon an animal in a drainpipe somewhere?” Sherlock listed off, still staring at the ceiling.

“‘Cause I was there when you didn’t.” 

Sherlock’s ice blue gaze darted over to stare at John, looking him over. John felt like he was being scanned. After a long awkward silence in which Sherlock just stared, John broke it, worried if he’d offended him somehow. “I mean, you seemed to care...” John started, stumbling awkwardly over his words as one of Sherlock’s eyebrows began to arch. The conversation was rapidly getting a little too personal for John’s liking. 

“Tea?” John asked, tea being his default answer to any tense situation. He slipped into the kitchen and set about making some, feeling the need to busy his hands. His eyes settled on the jar of finger bones on the countertop, glazing over a bit as he thought about how Sherlock had handled that hatchling with such care, had swaddled the helpless thing expertly; he’d known exactly what it was and how to deal with it. _Has Sherlock done that before? Or are all riders trained to do it and he was just following his training?_ He was nearly startled out of his skin as a long-fingered hand snatched the jar away, the small bones rattling away inside the liquid.

“I have been reliably told I have no heart, John; best not fool yourself thinking otherwise,” he murmured, opening a cabinet and putting the experiment away.

“Now who on earth told you that?” John said, rounding on the taller man as he continued to rearrange his things in the various cabinets and drawers. Sherlock gave him a look, eyebrow raised on a face that said ‘surely you aren’t that stupid’. 

John thought back to Sally’s various responses to Sherlock and his behaviour. “Sally?” John said, glancing in the direction of the kitchen door as though the commander were about to appear in it again. “I have to admit that was a little uncalled for, even if it might have been somewhat accurate. ” John added, looking back to Sherlock. 

Sherlock removed a bottle of something brown from another cabinet and took a sniff of it, his face scrunching in a sour expression, before shrugging and replacing it. “Please tell me that’s not something rotten,” John pleaded, eyebrows bunching together as Sherlock continued going through his things and unearthed another jar of something that looked fuzzy and grey. 

“I’ve lived here all my life, Sally is not the only other inhabitant of this Aerie,” Sherlock replied. “This one’s gone off,” he mumbled, pitching the furry jar into the garbage can. 

The assertion that more people than Sally treated Sherlock that way made John feel sad for him. The Aerie people and riders seemed like a pretty tight-knit group, nearly a family; to live there and be ostracized like Sherlock seemed to be for years and years couldn’t have felt good. No wonder the man seemed to be watching and analyzing John’s reactions every time he made a move or said something.

John stepped back, abandoning his tea- making in lieu of watching Sherlock shuffle through reordering his things. John had been studiously ignoring what was in the jars, petri dishes, and various containers stashed around the kitchen. Now that Sherlock was rifling through them he was getting to see what they were: most of them contained bits and pieces of anatomy submerged in liquids of varying colors, and some were like the eyeball jar under the sink where it looked like Sherlock was saving the item inside for later use. 

“What is that?” John finally asked as Sherlock pulled a jar with similarly colored liquid to the one he’d snatched earlier. This one contained a swollen and blistered finger. Sherlock looked up at him sharply, as if he’d become lost in his own head and forgotten John was even there.

“An experiment in the differences between Frilled and Plated Sicklefang acid decomposition rates,” he stated simply, putting the lightly tinkling jar away.

“Sicklefang?” John asked.

“Species native to Sri Lanka with subspecies scattered around the Bay of Bengal, evolved to spit an acidic saliva that has been reported, when in contact with the skin and mucous membranes, to create an effect similar to that seen chemical burn patients. The Frilled are a rare variety found on the Nicobar islands and Sumatra. The Plated are the slightly more common, least harmful, variety found and kept on Sri Lanka.” Sherlock recited as though he was reading the information off of an encyclopedia page.

“Incredible,” John said, making Sherlock look at him again, this time with curiosity in his eyes. 

“You realized you do that out loud?” he asked.

“I can see why they want you to tutor me,” John said. 

“Other than the fact that saddling me with you keeps me out of the way and on the ground as much as possible? Along with the added bonus of not setting anything on fire,” Sherlock said.

“Bit of a pyro are you?” John asked with a smirk.

“You’ve seen firsthand my penchant for danger John,” Sherlock leveled a flat-eyed look at him. 

“You’ve set fire to the Aerie haven’t you?” 

“No.” Sherlock snapped. “Accidentally set fire to the butchery about a year ago, and there was a time long before that with Henry’s predecessor,” Sherlock mumbled sulkily.

“And.”

“I have set fire to the flat multiple times over the years, nothing major.”

“And.”

“Shut up. I’ve ignited experiments at both the veterinary labs and on the training fields, I have set fire to myself no less than 10 times over the course of my life to varying degrees, I have blown the windows out of the flat twice, and once Bellamy accidentally burned down her pit’s ceiling, satisfied?” Sherlock asked crossly.

“Well, you are a regular firestarter aren’t you?”

“I can easily tell you how many times Hyperion’s burned things down. Those trees are not very old and he’s taken the roof off his pit more times than Bell has,” Sherlock sneered, “We are the riders of fired-breathers, it comes with the territory.”

“But you seem to have a reputation for it, no wonder Henry didn’t want you working in his area.” John chuckled, and Sherlock just looked petulant from where he leaned against the counter.

“If you are quite done, get out of my kitchen,” Sherlock grumped. 

“No, no, this isn’t _your_ kitchen anymore, its ours, mine and yours, so I’ll just stay right here,” John stood his ground. Sherlock leaned against the bit of counter the microscope had been shifted to, the grimy table between them. “Besides I have more questions for you,”

“I play the violin whenever the mood strikes me; I can go for days without talking; as you can see I do conduct experiments in the flat. You are free to read whatever books you want off the shelves.” Sherlock paused in his rapid-fire list to toss an arm out in the direction of the sitting room’s bookshelves, then continued his bullet points: “I can cook but don’t often, so if you want food make it yourself; you will never enter my bedroom without my explicit permission.” Something sounded off to John about that last bit, as if that room had been invaded before and Sherlock wanted to nip any thoughts John had about it in the bud from the start.

“That’s not what I had in mind,” John said, before Sherlock could continue his recitation of will’s and won’t’s. Sherlock’s head cocked to the side a fraction, a clear confused look gracing his features.

“This is what flatmates do, right? List the worst about each other, lay ground rules?” Sherlock replied, sounding genuinely confounded. 

“Well, yes, ground rules are good. But I just wanted to talk. For all the running around we’ve done these last couple days I don’t know much about you really, other than that you have a proclivity for keeping things that look rotten in the kitchen, you have a rather poor reputation amongst your peers, sometimes set things on fire including yourself-- thanks for that warning by the way I’m stocking a proper first aid kit as soon as I can-- and when you’re not doing assignments you’re off solving incredible mysteries.”

“That is about the gist of me.” Sherlock murmured, looking away from John at the ‘incredible’ bit. 

“I’d like to get to know you more, as you, not the holy terror you seem to present to everyone,” John went on. Sherlock was giving him a wary look, as though John’s olive branch offering of friendship was too friendly for a day or two’s acquaintance. Or perhaps he worried that having witnessed his stroppiness that morning might put John off. In bits and pieces John was starting to see little flickers of what he could only guess was Sherlock when he was at home: not an aloof moody ass, but a person with carefully hidden vulnerabilities. 

“How about lunch?” John asked with a small smile, breaking the growing silence between them. Sherlock blinked at that and started to open his mouth, but John didn’t let him continue. “If you say no I’m going to bring back food for you anyway, you need to eat.” Sherlock’s mouth snapped closed, and then the pout that had dominated his face for much of the morning returned. 

“Fine.” Sherlock groused, pushing away from the countertop and moving to grab his coat. 

Lunch was nowhere near as busy as breakfast had been but even still the cafeteria was inhabited by a good number of people. Many were children, all in groups being chaperoned by adults. John noticed that each division of the Aerie had different colored uniforms for their nestlings: Henry’s wore bright red and burgundy and Stapleton’s had a light cream and navy blue, while Soo Lin’s wore a sunny orange and brown and Sholto’s were in shades of military green. Lestrade’s bright blue and tan caught John’s eye immediately and a hand shot out of the group waving at him within moments of entering: Mary. Jim was with them and looked up in the direction she was waving. John saw his eyes widen before he gave a nervous wave and then reached to put a hand on Mary’s shoulder to shepherd her along with the rest of the group.

Sherlock drew attention as soon as he stepped through the doors heads all across the room turning to look at him. Sherlock’s unsociable mask deepend. John watched as he pushed forwards, hands going to the collar of his long coat and pushing it up over his neck as if it was an instinctive movement. _Its like his armor,_ John realized as he followed Sherlock towards the lunch buffet. 

Sherlock chose a small table with a pair of squishy chairs, away from most of the people in the room. John watched him as he moved his chair to put his back to the wall.

“You do realize I’m not going to attack you, right?” John asked jokingly, sitting across from him.

“You said yourself, I am not a well-liked individual. While I do not expect you to wish me harm yet, I expect lesser behavior from my peers,” Sherlock said quietly, John’s eyebrows rose at the admission.

“People haven’t actually hurt you, have they?” John asked, his mind instantly going to the sorts of damage that could be wrought in a cafeteria, with chairs and knives coming quickly to the fore.

“Nothing too excessively violent, but after getting all manner of things from eggs to apples thrown at you, one tends to take precautions.” Sherlock stabbed the hard boiled egg on his sparsely covered plate. “The last one was months ago, cold tea dumped down the back of a shirt isn’t exactly pleasant.” John looked at his own steaming cup of tea for a moment at that; no wonder Sherlock seemed a bit cautious. 

“Also, this position in the room provides a good view of the comings and goings of others without seeming too conspicuous, excellent for observing,” Sherlock added, the detective’s spark returning as he straightened a bit and scanned the room beyond John’s shoulder.

“Ah,” John smiled, “and you are part of the absolutely massive gossip vine living in this place?” He chuckled, munching on a crisp. 

“Of course not,” Sherlock replied, “it does prove useful at times, but I do not contribute.” 

“Well, you do, inadvertently,” John replied, “heard from Angelo last night that Henry was talking about the whole hatchling thing yesterday, ‘s all over the Aerie now.” 

“Yes, and so was Sally’s affair with Lestrade.” John nearly snorted his tea at that. 

“Her affair? Sherlock--” 

“Years ago, after she became his first officer, of course, and before he married Dimmock. It was nothing but Aerie gossip, John. Gossip is gossip, it takes observation of facts to parse out the rumors from the truth. That one was started by a jealous rider who wanted the position, not an speck of truth to it.” Sherlock’s explaining, interrupted the telling-off John wanted to give for airing that sort of dirty laundry where anyone could hear. As he thought about it, though, John himself had already been a victim of the rumor mill.

“It’s still not good to go repeating things like that, what if someone overheard?”

“If they were stupid enough to try and spread that rumor they’d deserve the embarrassment they’d get; the whole Aerie knows Lestrade is loyally married and Sally is in a long-distance relationship with one of our resident military riders and our very own Dr. Hooper.”

“Molly? Does she know about the other rider?” John asked, brain hopping to the awful Army cliche of cheating husbands and wives.

“The trio have been together now for nearly three years, I would hope so. Irene was sent out roughly the same time as Hyperion.” John noticed that Sherlock still wasn’t saying Victor’s name, substituting Hyperion’s instead. 

“Irene Adler?”

“The very same, you’ve met?” Sherlock said, his eyebrow rising. 

“She’s the one who rescued me. I saw her this morning at breakfast.” 

“Oh, that certainly explains Molly these last few days,” Sherlock mused. At John’s own raised eyebrow he continued, “perkier than usual and overall heightened cheeriness.” 

Before they could continue the conversation a shadow appeared over John’s plate, making him turn to see. Jim stood there, Mary at his side. 

“Hello John, he-hello Sherlock, sorry for interrupting, but this one wanted to see you,” Jim said quietly, dark eyes flicking between John and Sherlock but lingering on Sherlock, who appeared to be ignoring the teacher and actually eating his lunch.

“Oh? Hi, Mary,” John said. 

“Hi John,” she replied with a smile. “I’m going to be assigned to Hyperion soon,” she said, her smile broadening. 

“You are? What will you be doing?” John asked. 

“They all get assigned to riders for a while as part of their training,” Jim told him before Mary could respond. “Nothing too big, they just help with feeding and cleaning, getting some practical experience for the future and all.” He made a weak chuckle. 

“Well, that’s good to hear, I’ll be happy to be working with you.” John said offering his hand to shake hers, with a smile of his own.

“Wiggins got you this time around, Sherlock,” Jim said, focusing on the other rider even though he’d taken out his mobile to look at while he ate.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied not looking up. Jim’s hands were shaking as he raked through his hair a couple times, still staring at Sherlock even with the dismissal.

“Well, best be off, classes to do,” he said quickly not looking at John. 

“Bye John,” Mary called as he pulled her away.

Sherlock remained quiet for some time after they left, allowing John to finish his lunch. John noticed the detective seemed to have zoned out, fingers not moving on the phone in his hand, spoon stopped with a bite of food resting on his plate.

“Sherlock?” John asked with no response. “Sherlock?” he repeated, this time leaning across the table a bit to wave in front of him and garner his attention. “Oi, Sherlock,” John said a bit louder, concern beginning to color his voice as the rider continued to just stare unfocused at a spot in the vicinity of the table. Sherlock suddenly took in a deeper breath and looked up.

“Hm? What?” he asked calmly, though John saw his eyes dart around for a moment before focusing on John again.

“You kind of spaced out there,” John said, still a little worried by his flatmate’s lapse in awareness. 

“I was thinking,” Sherlock replied.

“For someone who seems a bit on the wary side of getting pranked, you were thinking awfully deeply in a public place.” John looked around to see if any of the other people around had noticed, but there was no one; the area sat even more emptied than it had been when they arrived.

“I assumed you would intercept anything flying in my general direction,” Sherlock said simply, indicating with a gesture the fact that John sat across from him, essentially blocking the detective from most of anything that might come at him from the front.

“What were you thinking about so hard then?” John asked. 

“The cabbie had a sponsor,” Sherlock replied, finally taking the small bite that waited on his spoon. 

“You said that last night.” John remembered vaguely Sherlock saying something about it amongst all the talk of poisonings the night before. “And?”

“Who would sponsor a killer?” Sherlock asked. “Better yet, where would said sponsor procure pills containing one of the most lethal naturally occurring poisons in the world?” Sherlock turned his mobile to John for him to read an open text. The toxin being described looked like a chemical nightmare; the moment one of those capsules ruptured the person taking it was basically dead.

“What the hell is this?” John asked brows furrowing, thinking back to the corpse he’d seen lying in the abandoned flat, and trying not to imagine what the concoction had done to her internally. 

“Shy Death toxin, produced by a small dragon species found in Panama. The locals call it that because they avoid humans like the plague; they’re intelligent enough to know that they can kill people accidentally and killing humans means they die.” Sherlock was typing away on his mobile while he talked, and he certainly had John entranced as he rattled off more of his incredible knowledge. “They’re extremely delicate, very thin, fine skin, vividly colored. They secrete an extremely toxic poison from pores around their necks and shoulders, much like frogs seen in the same region only on a much larger scale. I can count on just my fingers how many keepers for them there are. I saw one once when I was a child, visiting the Aerie for educational and study purposes.”

“And those pills are loaded with that stuff,” John said. It wasn’t a question, and he barely resisted rehashing the argument over the fact that Sherlock had nearly taken one of those pills. 

“They’re extremely well-protected: whole smuggling operations have been found dead in the forests after trying to capture them or their eggs. The ones foolish enough to try and end up caught by rangers or locals suffer stiff penalties. As far as I’m aware there are none outside of Panama and its islands.”

“So where did the pills come from?” John asked, and a smile began to grow on Sherlock’s face for the first time all day. It made John happy that he’d managed to make the rider actually smile with such a strange sort of question.

“The only captives are in Panamanian Aeries. There are four, one of which is their international one.” Sherlock prompted.

“It’s someone in an Aerie?” John asked finally, and Sherlock’s face lit as though John had just presented him with a new bit of anatomy to play with.

“Precisely,” he said.

“But there are Aeries all over the world,” John reasoned, and Sherlock’s face fell. Probably John’s assertion had reminded him that John was nowhere close to his genius.

“It only takes one corrupt person in the right place.,”

“Panama is halfway across the world from here,” John pointed out.

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a sigh. “The world is so much smaller from a dragon’s back,” he said dramatically, slouching back into his chair.

“Wait, how did you figure out it came from one of these Shy Death things in the first place?” John asked. 

“If you had been paying attention last night, rather than shouting at me,” Sherlock began, “you would have noticed that during our conversation, the matter of two pills came up.” Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. “The second pill was in a small bottle; I grabbed it before Bell decided to break in.”

“You really did have the right pill,” John said, eyebrows rising.

“I had its contents sent to be tested this morning,” Sherlock said.

“That’s an incredibly lucky guess, Sherlock,” John said.

“Don’t start with that again.”

“Well fine then, did he say anything else about this sponsor? Anything about the psycho who is giving out poison capsules to apparently any killer they see fit?” John huffed and sat back in his chair.

“They’re a _fan_ ,” Sherlock mumbled into his long fingers.

“A fan?” John squawked.

“I do have a public website,” he replied.

“And you’ve somehow managed to attract the attention of a person who supplies murderers with their weapons through it.” John felt he should have been more stunned about how much Sherlock didn’t seem to care about that, but after seeing the rider’s oddly flippant attitude concerning other matters of serious nature, he really wasn’t. “Anything else, a name? A calling card? Should I be expecting a ticking package in the post with your name on it?” 

“Don’t be dramatic John, hysterics don’t suit you,” Sherlock said. “Besides, the post is checked for explosives, if there were anything it’d leave a divot in the airfield, not our foyer.” 

“That’s not better, Sherlock.” John said with a frown.

“I wouldn’t know if this sponsor had a name, you shot him before I could get it. He said ‘muh’ and died. I have an ‘M’ but that is hardly anything to go on considering the vast number of people with that letter in their names in the world’s Aeries, and taking into account the possibility of aliases and the fact that he might not have even be telling me the name at all!” Sherlock sounded extremely frustrated and John, pinned by Sherlock’s accusing glare, tried not to feel responsible for that frustration.

Sherlock must have seen some guilt on John’s face, though, because he huffed, “no matter, I’ll just have to wait for another to surface. If the sponsor is a fan they’ll crop up again soon enough.”

“But Sherlock, if they do show up, how are you going to do anything? You’re stuck inside the Aerie with me. If they show up in the form of another serial killer playing Russian roulette, what’s to stop them?” John asked.

“I’m not as trapped as you think within these walls,” Sherlock replied with a mischievous glint and a mildly unsettling smirk. “Also, I doubt they’d try the same trick twice; whoever this is they’re powerful enough to have global connections and they’re smart enough to stay undercover and only become visible if and when they allow it.” Sherlock added. “And if they are inside an Aerie, this Aerie, as I suspect they are, its only a matter of time before they begin to turn inwards and try to get me to participate from within the walls. If I won’t come out to play--” 

“This person’s going to start killing inside the Aerie.” John finished, a horrified feeling in his gut.

“Who knows,” Sherlock shrugged, “lots of inconclusive data now, if the sponsor manifests at all it could be in any number of ways. Not my problem until they do.”

“Not your problem? Sherlock, the only reason they’ve manifested at all is because of you,” John exclaimed. He honestly didn’t want to see anyone killed in general but a death inside the Aerie most likely meant a dragon losing its rider or keeper or a nestling, and no matter how many battles he had experienced, the death of a child still tugged at John’s heart.

“And how do you propose we catch a killer before they have committed the act, without any information to track said individual down?” Sherlock asked, eyebrows raised at John, who still had his pulled together in concern. John paused. Sherlock was right: there really wasn’t anything to be done about it, but his gut still told him he should be doing something to protect the people inside the Aerie.

“Couldn’t you tell Lestrade?” John asked, his mental search for options turning up fruitless but for one thought cast towards the Masters. 

“Hmm, no,” Sherlock grumbled, mulling it over himself for a moment. “An increase in security would only serve to drive the sponsor underground. No, we wait. Eventually something will happen. In the meantime, I have other cases to solve.” Sherlock sat up and grabbed for his barely-touched plate, moving to stand.

“What about me?” John said, following Sherlock’s lead and getting up as well.

“Oh yes, and you,” Sherlock murmured, stopping to look at John as he stood and gathered his own things. John looked up at him, not quite understanding what he meant by that. The usual coldness wasn’t in his eyes as he contemplated John for a moment. Then he turned and headed towards the doors, leaving John to catch up.


	8. The Flatmate Test

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much Nautilicious for being my beta. Sorry it took so long to get this chapter written and up.
> 
>  
> 
> Just as a warning, this chapter does contain mentions of past domestic abuse.

The next day after Sherlock had been assigned to John, he disappeared. John returned from breakfast to an empty flat and for a few minutes panicked thinking Sherlock had decided to just run off and make a foolish break for the outside. The rider’s laptop was gone from its table in the sitting room and the rider’s door was cracked open. John was about to run downstairs for Mrs Hudson when he noticed a bright green sticky note on the suspiciously clean table. “Gone to see Bellamy, leave us alone -SH” was all it said, but it immediately calmed John’s nerves; it made sense that the rider would be out with his dragon once he actually sat down and thought about it. 

Until he didn’t come back for hours. Around lunch John sent him a text: ‘Will you be coming home tonight?’ which never got a reply. Sherlock appeared late that night when John was preparing for bed. The detective wandered past the door, completely silent, as John was brushing his teeth. Sherlock sequestered himself in his room with no explanation as to what he had been up to all day. John just let him have his privacy; as long as he didn’t get an angry phone call saying Sherlock had broken the rules of his grounding, John was happy to leave the rider alone if he wanted it.

Sherlock lived up to his warning about not talking for days on end, though. The next time he emerged from his room he silently trudged through the flat dressed in a very worn-in pair of pyjamas and a blue dressing gown, spread out on the sofa, and didn’t move for hours. 

The first day or two John honestly worried about Sherlock’s health, since he never saw him actually eat or drink until he caught the detective making himself a piece of toast and a glass of the orange juice John had bought. If it weren’t for the sound of his breathing and the occasional movement and repositioning John could almost swear he was living alone.

John visited Hyperion multiple times a day during Sherlock’s silent spell, not having much else to do around the flat but sit and watch the other rider breathe. Mary began her helping duties right away, accompanying Tom to Hyperion’s daily medication rounds. John got to watch as Hyperion delicately took his vitamin- and pill-laden food from her smaller hands. She also asked if she could come and play with Hyperion, Mary showed him that she too had a small flip phone she could text him with and quickly took his number. John agreed to let her play with Hyperion as long as he was around, worried about the girl’s safety. John trusted Hyperion wouldn’t hurt her intentionally, but accidents happen. 

“I’m 11, I’ll be able to get my own dragon soon,” Mary told him as she rolled out Hyperion’s ball, pushing it over so the dragon could reach it from his mat while she went back to pull out a large hoop too. 

“You’ve got a couple years still,” John replied, sitting nearby on the worn in sofa.

Mary had on a belt that looked similar to the one Sherlock wore when he was riding, only a little more roughed up and smaller, with a cable strung between two of the loops at one hip. She clipped the cable to the hoop she’d rolled out and John nearly shot out of his seat as she asked Hyperion if he would pick her up and he felt Hyperion consent across the bond. Hyperion grabbed hold of the hoop with his mouth, Mary sitting on it, and John watched as he lifted it and her from the floor.

“Careful,” John called worriedly, as she stood up and scratched at Hyperion’s chin, one hand on the ring.

“It’s okay, you can do this with him too once you get a belt,” Mary called, leaning out farther to scratch at a particularly soft spot under Hyperion’s jaw, “I don’t really have one yet either, I borrowed this one from the school.”

“Just don’t want to see you fall is all,” John said, finally standing quickly as she sat back down on the ring and hung upside down with her knees, like a kid hanging from the monkey bars on a playground instead of from a dragon’s teeth more than just a couple feet off the ground.

“You seem to worry a lot,” Mary said, looking at him upside down. “I’m not going to fall, see,” she said, and John nearly had a small heart attack as she unseated herself and hung from the cord attached to her belt, a hand still on the ring, but otherwise suspended in air. “These belts are really strong, John, you should see the real riders, they can do all sorts of neat tricks with theirs.” She pulled herself back up.

“I’ve seen the real riders in action,” John replied, watching Hyperion gently hook the ring with one of the talons on his good arm and transfer the ring from mouth to claw, Mary swinging with a giggle the entire time. “I don’t see myself doing that anytime soon.”

“You’ve gotten to see riders in battle?” she asked, holding on as Hyperion passed the ring from talon to talon. “They’re amazing when they do practice formations on the training fields,” she said with an awed sound, the starry eyes of a child watching a highwire circus act. 

“They’re terrifying,” John said, looking up at her and praying this little girl didn’t ever meet the fate of the riders he’d watched fall. 

“No! Terrifying are the ones who train for stealth and night flights, they’re awesome. You need to see them practicing sometime, they’re so quiet you don’t even see them until they’re right there on top of you.” She spoke with almost a scary level of glee as she made a small pouncing motion that made John’s stomach give a tiny lurch to catch her, “and the dragons that aren’t all black for night missions are so much fun to clean. They black out their wings and bellies and all their light spots, and make such a mess of the baths when we get to clean them.”

John had heard of things like what she described, a piece of the night sky suddenly dropping onto a group of soldiers and wreaking havoc on anything that moved and leaving just as quietly as it came, Small battalions like John’s former unit often had a couple of smaller dragons assigned to it during the night to provide protection against such attacks. 

“Yeah, those really are terrifying,” John said, feeling a small shiver running up his spine that caught Hyperion’s attention. He stopped swinging the hoop to send a small wave of comfort John’s direction. ‘Over’ he pressed, and John felt like Hyperion had physically brushed him like a cat might rub up against his shins, and the warm feeling soothed the chill of the memory.

Mary had Hyperion put her down after that; she seemed to realize a moment had just passed between dragon and rider. She unhooked herself and put the hoop away before she started rolling the ball with him.

“Speaking of baths, I’m sure Dr. Hooper’s gonna want to get him one soon,” she said after a short period of silence.

“Oh yeah? How can you tell?” John asked, looking Hyperion over. He didn’t look much different than he usually did. 

“He’s gonna shed soon, he’s starting to look a little bit dusty. One day you’ll wake up and he’ll be all kind of white-ish and before you know it bits of him will be flaking off left and right. Yep, Dr Hooper’ll probably get him in for a bath before that just to make it easier to get off,” Mary said matter-of-factly. 

“You seem to know a lot about giving dragons baths,” John said with a smile, feeling much better now that she was on the ground and they’d gotten away from the topic of flight and war.

“It’s only one of the most fun jobs in the Aerie, especially in the summer. It’s a bit rotten in the winter cause the water’s warm but everywhere else isn’t. You’ll see soon, it’s lots of fun. I’ve been told it’s like a day at the beach only without all the sand, which I think is fine since we get plenty of sand anyway,” she rambled, waving an arm at Hyperion’s mostly untouched sand pit.

“Well, we’ll see what Molly says about that bath,” John said, sitting down and just listening as Mary continued to chatter on about the goings on of the Aerie from the perspective of an eleven year-old. 

He learned that she and a couple of other nestlings lived with a keeper by the name of Mrs Turner, who sounded a bit like Mrs Hudson. Mrs Turner’s dragon was apparently a short, fat, swampy green piebald dragon with one light blue eye and a white blotch that looked like a bunny if you squinted hard at it, it liked to sleep on Mary’s feet at night ‘cause her feet got cold and the other children’s didn’t. John had actually wondered where the nestlings all lived, considering nearly every time he’d seen them they were being herded along in a large group like little blue-clad sheep. 

When Mary mentioned she’d been assigned to Sherlock a couple of months before John arrived, John braced himself for a tale of unkind words and rudeness, but instead she said that Sherlock treated the nestlings very well. According to her, he gave them things when they did well, presents and snacks and the like. Mary told John that during her time working with him he’d given her a small snowglobe from Italy, a bag of chocolates from some city in Germany, and a big seashell from Malta, along with snacks like candy bars or granola on days when they worked extra hard at something. 

John felt relieved that he wasn't the only person ever to see Sherlock being kind; that Sherlock seemed to have a soft spot for the Aerie’s nestlings put a smile on John’s face. Mary’s happy list of treats made John feel hungry, and he noticed the sun beginning to set. 

“Would you like me to escort you to dinner?” John asked, as she put Hyperion’s ball away. 

“Oh, no, I’m okay, Mrs Turner’s got a roast cooking at home.”

“Home, then?” 

“I’ll be okay on my own.”

“All alone in the Aerie after dark?” 

“I got here all by myself didn’t I?” And that settled it. John gave Hyperion a farewell nose rub, as did Mary, and they parted ways at the door.

That night John had another nightmare, same as the last, always falling. This time though, John gave in to temptation, picked up his pillow, and went down to Hyperion’s pit to sleep with him. Hyperion welcomed him with open arms, pulling his rider close to his breast and letting John be soothed by the warmth and strong thumping heartbeat. Both were rattled by the nightmare, worry radiating thinly across the bond to John, but the physical contact helped and before he knew it he was drifting towards sleep again, cradled against the crook of Hyperion’s elbow.

The next night was the first time John was awakened by a nightmare from Hyperion. It felt very similar to his own dreams of falling, but instead he was watching others, watching dragon upon dragon being raked out of the sky, wings ripped from bodies, long slender necks sliced and only barely connected by bone and scales, blood spurting and trailing like crimson ribbons behind screaming corpses, panic and fear becoming overwhelming as nothing could be done to stop them being cut from the air and falling to a sickening crunching death, viscera exploding into blossoms of red on sandy ground. And then a human fell past his vision trailing blood. The burst of pain as the human hit the ground woke John. 

He didn’t even take time to change clothes or grab anything beyond his cane. John’s leg and shoulder both hurt. John hobbled down the stairs, past Sherlock asleep on the sofa, and out to Hyperion’s pit where he found Hyperion laying half in his sand pool and breathing hard. The entire time the bond felt alight with fear. John tried to calm Hyperion from a distance, but he was too confused and frightened himself by the dream to do much good. 

Hyperion groaned with nearly every breath, large chest visibly heaving. John limped out across the sand to where Hyperion’s head lay, golden eyes wide and mouth open, huffing sand. He was trembling.

“Shh, shh, shh, you’re okay boy,” John whispered, dropping his cane and reaching out to gently touch the bridge of Hyperion’s nose. Hyperion pressed into it with a desperate grunt and John laid himself across his muzzle, pressing as much of himself to Hyperion as he could without stripping out of his pyjama trousers. “You’re alright, just a bad dream,” John continued to soothe, stroking over what he could reach of his dragon’s face. He continued to push comfort across the bond as he cooed and shushed Hyperion, touching and stroking and just being as much of a physical presence for the dragon as his small stature could be. “I’m here, you’re okay.” Hyperion’s eye’s closed and his scared mind reached and clung to John’s, breathing slowing as he calmed.

“Did you hurt yourself?” John asked quietly, once Hyperion had relaxed a bit. He was aware the dragon had his injured shoulder in the sand; he’d clean it once he got Hyperion back up and moving. Hyperion nodded, a shaky thin feeling of uncertainty accompanying it, ‘I don’t know, but I’m feeling poorly’ John interpreted. He looked up the length of Hyperion’s body to the scabby wound partially covered by a folded wing. No blood was running from it, so he must not have ripped it open, but still a hurt was a hurt. 

“Think you could get up?” John asked, after a few more moments of holding and calming. He wanted to get Hyperion situated somewhere more comfortable; lying with the stone edge of his sand pool digging into his ribs couldn’t be helping.

Hyperion shifted, letting John slide off his nose as he made the motion to roll upright. He groaned as he sat up, letting out a long sigh as he managed to get all four feet under him. John felt all the little aches and pains pinging across the bond keenly.

“Okay, now we just move over to your mat and get you nice and comfy,” John said with a smile, grabbing his cane and hobbling over to give Hyperion’s forearm a rub. Another sigh came as Hyperion looked over at the mat and John felt his reluctance at getting up and actually walking all the way over to it. 

“You’d be a lot more comfortable over there,” John told him. “You don’t have to go to sleep, just sit and relax.” John coaxed him along, sensing that some part of that reluctance was brought on by the nightmare and not wishing to revisit the land of dreams so quickly.

In the end John won out; Hyperion gingerly got to his feet and limped to his bed. John’s heart ached for him as he felt Hyperion’s soreness and residual traces of fear and sadness, still thinking of the nightmare. John grabbed the blankets Mary had helped him beat the sand out of and while Hyperion leaned over to get a drink from his fountain John set about making himself a bed against the inside of Hyperion’s paw.

John stayed up feeding him calming thoughts and keeping contact. He ended up drifting off against Hyperion’s thumb. John woke with Hyperion’s nose against his belly, warm even breath blowing over him as the dragon finally slept. It was well into the morning, but John didn’t care, as long as the distraught dragon was relaxed and resting. 

John texted Molly to tell her what had happened and the veterinarian came to check on him. She looked over Hyperion’s wounds and determined they were healing well and hadn’t been re-opened, any pain was probably from the small fall he’d taken when he tried to get up. She did confirm Mary’s previous assertion that it would soon be time for a bath, though, as she helped John gently rinse off the sand stuck to Hyperion’s injured shoulder.

Molly told John that if Hyperion kept having nightmares and it became a reoccuring thing, she could have him sleep with what she called ‘the pile’ over in the veterinary wing for a bit. She said the Ridgebacks like him liked to sleep in groups and piles out in the wild. The contact and warmth of the other dragons who had experienced similar wartime situations might be able to help stave off nightmares, remind him that he’s not alone, he’s not the only one that survived. John disliked the idea of Hyperion being so far away across the Aerie, but if it came to that they could give it a try.

Another night spent out with Hyperion after a short nightmare that actually involved his time as a medic on the ground, bodies bleeding out everywhere and all calling for him to help, made John call for a therapist. Dr. Thompson was kind and understanding, and she was one of the first people to not make a big deal of his fear of flying. In the end she had a few suggestions and gave him her number if he needed to talk again. 

She recommended that John write. Nothing specific, just write: keep a journal, write a dream diary, make stories, concerns, fears, anxieties, get them out on paper during the waking hours rather than bottling them up in his head. Another piece of advice was sleeping with something warm, maybe a heating pad or a warmed up pillow. She said that with younger newly-bonded riders the warmth helped mimic the heat of their dragon next to them and aided with sleeping at home. 

When John got home from his visit a cable had appeared on his bed, nothing out of the ordinary just a black cable with a sticky note attached reading “laptop charger.” He looked to the door as if expecting Sherlock to be standing there with an explanation but the detective was still down in the sitting room.

He dug out the laptop he’d buried in his things, figuring he’d never get it to work again without the cables. The first thing he did was type out an email to Harry, apologizing for upsetting her. His next act was to look up Sherlock’s website.

His website wasn’t flashy mostly it contained analytical blog posts about various chemical experiments he’d performed. Interesting stuff, but you’d never know he was a dragon rider by it until you got to the comments and the small snippets of cases that poked through. 

‘Mr Holmes, thank you and Bellamy for your help.’ 

‘Dear Mr Holmes’ or ‘Dear Sherlock Holmes’ littered the comments as people presented their cases to him on public forum instead of using the email address at the top of the page. People would ask him to solve some of the oddest things and then the most of the comment lines would end there, with no clue as to how the case ended or if he even took it to begin with. Some simply ended with a ‘thank you’ note.

Other comments seemed to be from fans, commenting on the cases that did have Sherlock’s short curt replies on them or making comments on the ones that he didn’t, pointing him at the case saying ‘do this one!’ 

‘U r the Silver Sleuth guy in those vids u r cool do more.’ John read, which reminded him about what Lestrade had said, there were videos of Sherlock and Bellamy online. He chuckled at ‘Silver Sleuth’ before typing the name into the search bar. 

The first video was indeed of Sherlock talking to Dimmock, dated the previous year. Whoever had taken the video was trying to be sneaky about it, poking a camera of a phone around the corner to catch Sherlock in mid-deduction. Even with the somewhat shaky quality, the audio was fairly clear and John got to listen to Sherlock’s lovely baritone ramble on for a few minutes as he explained who had killed the victim and specifically how. A muffled voice interrupted a little with fannish exclamations of ‘how cool is this? I found him!’ before there was a sharp startled gasp and something of a frightened giggle as the camera jerked away from the detective to look up at Bellamy. She’d stepped into sight from around the corner of the alleyway, moving as gracefully as ever to where Sherlock stood. A couple of police officers backed up as she approached. ‘She’s fuckin’ beautiful, guys,’ the cameraman whispered into the microphone. John watched as Sherlock turned and quickly marched away from Dimmock, swinging himself up into Bellamy’s saddle. She took to the air with a graceful twist and the camera managed to catch the sun glinting slightly off of her scales before she swept from view over the edge of a rooftop.

The video channel seemed to be a fan page: not all of the videos were from the same person, some were better quality than others, and some didn’t have audio at all or were just videos of Bellamy streaking across the sky. John was hooked. 

The ones that managed to get close enough to be able to hear Sherlock talk were the best because usually whatever he had to say, no matter how full of snark and condescension, was fascinating. Sherlock really did get up to some incredible cases. _Too bad the man doesn’t actually make any posts about the ones in the videos,_ John thought as he clicked another one. 

When he was done he went downstairs, laptop in hand. Sherlock still lay curled up with his curly head buried in the back of the sofa.

“Thank you for the cables,” John said. Sherlock didn’t reply; if anything he just tucked himself more into the sofa, but at least John felt he had been heard.

That night the violin started. It wasn’t unpleasant, just mildly startling at half past three in the morning. John tried to quietly descend the stairs with his cane and found Sherlock up in the sitting room, violin tucked under his chin and bow in hand, playing away at a nice even-tempo piece. Sherlock faced the window behind his chair and appeared oblivious to the fact that John was watching him as he gently swayed in the moonlight. While John could honestly say he’d never roomed with someone who played instruments at all hours of the night he reasoned it could have been worse. The violin was nice and through the layers of the flat up in his room it was quiet enough to fall asleep to.

The next day Sherlock broke the silence.

“Two sugars,” he called from the sitting room. John nearly spilled his tea.

“Where have you been?” John asked, looking around the door to see a wide strip of belly as Sherlock stood and stretched.

“I haven’t left the flat,” Sherlock grunted as he bent back unselfconsciously, fingers knitted together far above his head.

“No, but you’ve been completely silent for the last five days. What, did you get lost in that big head of yours?” John said, going back to the kitchen while Sherlock continued stretching.

“I was thinking,” Sherlock said, as if that completely explained why ‘thinking’ had required a near unmoving silence.

“For five days?” John asked, putting together Sherlock’s tea as well.

“I told you-”

“Yes, I heard you, I didn’t think it meant the better part of a week. What were you thinking about then?” John interrupted, fishing out a biscuit while waiting for the other cup to steep.

Sherlock didn’t answer right away and a very tiny part of John worried he’d somehow pushed the detective back into his thinking spell by asking about it too soon. But then Sherlock appeared next to him, took up the box of biscuits almost before John could put it down, pulled out a handful, and munched on one as he retreated back towards his own chair. 

“Cataloguing, organizing, planning,” he said, once he’d devoured the first biscuit.

“Is Bellamy aware you do that?” John wondered aloud, adding the sugar to Sherlock’s tea and taking it to him, sitting down with his own in the armchair that had become his.

“Her mind likes to roam in a palace now and then.”

“What?” John’s lips were at his mug, eyebrow climbing.

“A mind palace, a way to organize thoughts and memories into a room in the mind.” 

“But you have a palace. And she can visit it?” John was a little bemused by the concept, but the news that Sherlock hadn’t been completely cut off from Bellamy over the last few days was a reassurance. 

“She looks while I think, asks questions now and then,” Sherlock said, taking a drink.

“You answer, I hope.” 

“Of course I do,” Sherlock grumbled indignantly, a small scowl growing on his face, “I’ve had her for a long time, I’ll have you remember.” 

John hummed a response and they both became quiet while drinking their tea. Sherlock was nearly done with his third biscuit when John spoke again.

“So what are you planning?” he asked.

“Hmm?” Sherlock replied around the last of the treat in his mouth.

“You said you were planning a moment ago,” John repeated. 

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, going no further than that with his answer.

“And. Mind sharing?” John asked, noticing Sherlock’s avoidance of actually answering his question. 

“Mmm. No,” he said, and got up, took his cup to the sink, and continued back towards his room. John got up to follow.

“Sherlock. Sherlock, we were talking.” The bedroom door slammed closed before John could make it past the fridge. Four days it had been quiet in the flat, aside from Mrs Hudson or Angus ducking in now and then, and John wasn’t going to let Sherlock escape. By the rider’s own words they were saddled with each other for the foreseeable future and John wanted to actually talk to the man, especially considering he was about that have to start dragging him to classes with him. 

“Sherlock, come out of there,” John called, knocking on his door. “Please?” He could hear Sherlock shuffling around. 

John heard Sherlock’s door to the bathroom slide and the shower turn on. John sighed, turning and putting his head against the bathroom door. “Fine, but we do need to actually talk sometime.” The sound of the shower running was his only reply.

John didn’t see Sherlock again until a couple hours later. John had brought down his laptop and was fiddling with the new cable when a question for Sherlock occurred to him. Just then he heard a cabinet rattle.

“Sherlock?” he called, taking the cable with him. The detective almost looked startled to see him rounding the corner but he couldn’t be a surprised as John was to see a tall lanky man in a very short towel. 

“Sh-Sherlock I… go put some clothes on for God’s sake.” John could not pretend he had not just caught his flatmate a bit of fabric short of naked, especially as said pale Adonis hitched his towel a little higher on his hips, quickly regaining composure like the cat who absolutely meant to just fall off the windowsill. 

“It’s my flat,” he said regally.

“Yes, but it’s our kitchen. Go put clothes on. I need to ask you something and we are not having this conversation with you starkers.” John pointed towards Sherlock’s room. Sherlock huffed and strode back down the hall and John looked away, tongue darting to wet dry lips as he tried not to think about the way Sherlock’s towel dipped in the back. He’d utterly forgotten what he wanted to ask Sherlock. 

God, it was hard not to think about, though. Sherlock wasn’t nearly as skin and bones as John had thought. He was lean, maybe a razor’s edge to too thin but otherwise well-muscled all over. John had seen his upper torso very briefly the first night they’d met, but he hadn’t really gotten an eyeful like he just had done. Sherlock had his share of small silver scars, but for the most part he was all smooth and milky white with little to nothing in the way of tanlines from the flat plane of his belly the slight hint of hip lines showing above the towel, to his strong pectorals with sparse hair.John couldn’t help noticing that Sherlock walked back to his room with a sway in his hips that drew the eye to the dip of his spine in his lower back, flashing the backs of those long thick thighs and calves that the riding leathers had barely tried to hide before. If John didn’t know better he’d say Sherlock did it on purpose.

John took a quick breath, eyes widening, and felt very glad Sherlock had already shut his door. _Not good, that’s not remotely appropriate, Watson,_ he told himself, shaking his head and turning back to the sitting room, cables clenched tightly in his fist. He sat in his chair waiting for Sherlock to return, all the while trying to scrub wholly improper thoughts about his flatmate’s enviable physique from his brain.

Sherlock made his return dressed in a new pair of pyjamas and another robe, this one burgundy. He had completed the earlier task he’d set out for in his towel, which had been to grab a couple crackers from the cupboard, and flopped in his grey chair across from John, still chewing as he sprawled. 

“You know you need to eat more than toast and biscuits,” John commented, eyes now unsure where to focus even though everything was covered. He caught himself watching Sherlock’s throat as he swallowed.

“Must I report every ounce of sustenance I take in?” Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes.

“I didn’t say that,” John protested, “it’s just I haven’t seen you eat anything like a decent meal in a few days. I don’t want you falling ill because you didn’t feed yourself.” Sherlock looked down at him from his reclined position, but said nothing.

“I wanted to ask you a question,” John started, holding up the laptop cables in his fist for Sherlock to see. “How did you know I needed these?” Sherlock’s face closed off, the raised eyebrows of attentiveness flattening out. John swore he could almost see his eyes darken and dart for the bedroom door visible beyond John’s shoulder. “Sherlock, answer the question, I swear if I have to pin you down to get you to answer I’ll do it.” There was a glint in Sherlock’s blue eyes, challenge accepted, and Sherlock rose from his chair.

John had him by the wrist first, then got to feel just how strong those lanky arms were as Sherlock swiftly twisted his arm to grab back and pulled John from his chair. John used the weight of his fall to drag Sherlock to the floor with him. His shoulder stung as Sherlock landed on him and began the short scuffle of grappling to get John to let go.

John ended up sitting on Sherlock, one arm held behind his back as the other flailed for purchase. The only reason Sherlock wasn’t out from under him at that very moment was apparent by the choked laughter being forced out of him by John’s other hand digging in just below his ribs. 

“St-stop! ack, Sto-o-op!” Sherlock was scrabbling to get enough leverage to haul John off his back, but the tickling seemed to be paralyzing, and John smirked triumphantly as he eased his fingers away.

“Want to answer my questions now?” John asked.

“I want you to get off me,” Sherlock snarled, taking the brief respite to try to buck John. 

“Why don’t you answer my questions then?” John asked, resuming the harmless torment.

“Get the hell off me and maybe I will,” Sherlock panted after another round, his face red. 

“I have an older sister you know, used to keep this sort of thing up for hours with her when we were younger,” John said, threatening another round. 

It was that moment when a throaty croaking came from the doorway. Angus stood at the top of the stairs, frills up and making what amounted to his loudest vocalizations, which sounded a bit like someone attempting to strangle a barking dog. He hissed, colorful crests standing out more as he advanced towards the pair of them making small charging motions at John. 

John let go of Sherlock and right away removed himself to sit on the floor. “I’m not hurting him, Angus,” John said, recognizing protective behavior.

“Angus!” Mrs Hudson came bustling up the stairs. “What on earth are you boys doing?” she asked, thin hands smoothing back her dragon’s frills as she pulled his head to her hip.

John realized then how strange they must have looked, Sherlock sprawled on his front with John straddling him and pinning him down from behind.

“It’s nothing, Mrs Hudson, nothing to worry about,” Sherlock said, pushing himself up to standing and reaching for Angus to smooth a large palm across his head. There was a moment of tense judging stares as both Angus and Mrs Hudson looked down at John still sitting on the floor.

“I-I really wasn’t hurting him I swear,” John said, covering his face with a hand in embarrassment at what he was about to admit. “Just was tickling him to get him to talk to me, s’all,” he mumbled. 

“Tickling?” Mrs Hudson sounded astonished by the idea. John looked to see her peering at Sherlock, whose face was still a bit blotchy from gasping with laughter. Her face broke into a smile. “Well I never,” she started chuckling, Angus looking to his keeper for explanation. “Come along Angus,” she said, guiding her confused-looking charge back towards the door. “Don’t hurt each other, dears,” she tittered on her way down.

John watched them go, slightly befuddled by Mrs Hudson’s reaction. Hyperion was laughing on his end of the bond, whether due to the situation at hand or the prior tickling John couldn’t tell, but the dragon’s laughter vibrating on the bond made John chuckle too. He was pulled back to the flat by Sherlock curling onto the sofa with a loud sigh, arms moving to protectively cover his belly and ribs.

“Ready to answer my questions?” John asked.

“Don’t touch me,” Sherlock grumped, “What… What you did there, don’t do that,” he said flicking his fingers at John before covering his belly again.

“So,” John said, reaching over for the discarded cable. “How’d you know I needed this for starters?”

Sherlock’s eyes darted away, looking anywhere but John. “I went through your things.”

“You what?” John was actually a little surprised by the quick answer.

“Got bored one night while you were out and went through your room,” Sherlock said with a heavy sigh. John could almost see his muscles beginning to tense as though he was expecting another onslaught of some kind to come with his answer.

“What on earth for?!” John asked, trying to think if he’d noticed anything out of place over the last day or two.

“Bored, something new,” Sherlock mumbled. When his eyes finally met John’s again they quickly veered away. “I didn’t steal anything,” he said a bit louder.

“That’s not the point, Sherlock, its the violation of privacy. I respect yours, you said no touching your room and I haven’t touched it. I expected the same courtesy for my things.” John couldn’t help but feel a little angry at the fact that apparently the ‘no disturbing each other’s rooms’ rule only applied to Sherlock’s things.

“You don’t have many things,” Sherlock noted, derailing the argument in his own special way.

John paused his tirade to respond to the new comment. “I was in the military.” Not that that meant much; there were plenty of military men who had much more than John’s sparse bits and pieces.

“I saw the pictures.”

“Those were private.” John bristled at the admission. Those were his pictures, his memories of people long gone, Sherlock had no right rummaging through his things and looking at them.

“I wasn’t looking for them, they weren’t particularly well hidden. I rearranged your sock drawer by the way, surprised you didn’t notice.” 

“What if I went through your things, Sherlock?” John got up, hissing as he put weight on his shoulder. The small scuffle getting Sherlock down had aggravated it more than he’d realized. “What if I decided to uncover whatever personal little trinkets you’ve got stashed away in your bedroom? Got any good drugs hidden away? Lestrade and Dimmock sure seemed to think so. How about any pictures of you and Vic-” 

“I’m not using!” Sherlock exclaimed, cutting John off before he could list any more.

“How would I know? You’ve been silent as the grave for the last week and half, holed up in your room!” John said it a little louder than he meant to. He realized he was towering over Sherlock, the tall rider curled up tight on the sofa, staring up at John with those blue eyes. John backed away to sit in one of the chairs at the desk.

“What?” Sherlock had a confused wrinkle between his brows.

John looked him over. Something about his posture seemed wrong, gave John a concerned feeling in his gut. “You look like I’m about to hit you,” John finally said.

“I can defend myself,” Sherlock replied

That didn’t make John feel any better. “Sherlock, that’s not it. You’re acting like you expect me to.”

Then it clicked: the fact that Sherlock wouldn’t say Victor’s name, that he insisted that John stay away from his room, his attitude when John touched him. Hyperion was awake on the other end of the bond, his mind watching John’s emotions shift, seemingly ready to push a blanket of calm comfort onto John should the situation need it. 

John brushed the dragon’s mind and he pushed a question out to him, ‘did Victor hurt Sherlock?’ he asked simply, still not entirely well practiced at using his mental voice rather than asking out loud. Hyperion was a little confused by the question at first but he tentatively nudged back a feeling of uncertainty before showing memories: Victor entering the pit in a huff, anger playing across before his love for Hyperion washed it away. Small spikes of extreme possessiveness whipping across the bond now and again before Hyperion would feel the immense pleasure that told him to give his rider privacy and look away as it were, which felt mildly disturbing to John, the echo of a feeling of arousal springing forward so suddenly. But the swirl of confused digging for things that would show John if Victor hurt his ‘mate’ only continued on in a small flow of feelings strewn with spikes of remembered anger and upset. Hyperion himself had never actually witnessed Victor being physical with Sherlock beyond the extremely rare kiss, knowing only what Victor told him, and the feelings he sensed.

“Stop talking to him,” Sherlock cut in, bringing John back.

“How-” John started.

“You didn’t think I’d notice when you went quiet in the middle of a conversation?” Sherlock said arching an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” John apologized, rubbing at his temple with his fingers.

They were both silent for a minute, neither one of them sure of what to say. “You’d be right to punch me,” Sherlock finally murmured, making John look at him.

“No I wouldnt!” John told him, frowning.

Sherlock sighed, getting up off the couch and heading towards the kitchen. John watched him trudge up to one of the cabinets and pull a textbook out of it. 

“Yes you would.” Sherlock came close enough to hand John the book. When John took it Sherlock edged a step or two away, not quite out of reach. The book was John’s, a thick old medical textbook he’d kept more as a paperweight than anything else. It had been thrown randomly into the box of his belongings. 

“I was going to start burning the pages of that tomorrow, using the paper for experiments. I took it when I left the cable. You really are unobservant, John.” Sherlock’s tone sounded like he was admitting something after a long bout of questioning. The insult seemed half-hearted.

“What? Why?” John asked, looking up at Sherlock.

“Just get it over with, John, I’m tired of waiting. I’ve actually got things I’d like to do today.” 

John felt completely confused.“Get what over with?”

“God! Are you stupid? Punch me, get it over with, I’ve stolen something of yours that you obviously place some value in, having gone to the trouble to carry it around with you. I took it with the intent to use it and destroy it. You don’t own many things; would that be some sort of breaking point for you? Or do I have to break the password on that laptop and go through your search history? I can do that in a matter of moments, I’m certain. I could play something a bit louder tonight, more caterwauling than you can bear, considering your recent interrupted sleep. Just hit me, establish where the lines are so I can go back to working on my own things.” Sherlock’s icey eyes flashed as he ranted. 

“Sherlock, I don’t want to hit you, I want you to explain why on earth you want me to.” John was wide-eyed at the sudden whirl of frustration Sherlock had become. “It’s what Victor would have done, is that it? Is that why you refuse to actually say his name out loud? He actually did beat you for being a little obnoxious?” John was suddenly up and facing Sherlock, who backed away a step or two before holding his ground.

“He didn’t _beat me,_ ” Sherlock snapped, “A beating implies there was more than one hit and I was the passive party. He would punch me and then we’d fight; I can and will defend myself.” Sherlock made his point as though the fact that his flatmate used to, apparently at random, decide to antagonize and start fights with him was a perfectly normal thing. _Is it,_ John wondered momentarily. 

“But, wait, Hyperion said you were Victor’s mate,” John wondered.

“That’s what you were talking to him about?” Sherlock asked.

“What? No, I was asking him if Victor had hit you before. He honestly can’t remember, but he remembers Victor being angry at you. I might not be a genius, but I can put things together too, Sherlock; you just said you expected me to hit you over something as stupid as waking me up with your violin!” John said, waving at the instrument in question in its case perched next to the window. 

“You… I…” Sherlock seemed to be struggling for a response. John watched his eyes dart from the violin to John, down to where John’s left hand was clenched into a fist at his side, then away. John could almost feel the confusion pouring off of him; Sherlock’s gears of thought jamming on a retort. John backed down, taking a deep breath and relaxing his posture.

“Look, Sherlock, I’m not going to hit you or punch you or any of that nonsense, I just want you to talk to me. We seem to have had a miscommunication somewhere, just, sit down and we can discuss this like proper adults.” John said calmly. 

Sherlock looked at him warily before he sat back down on the sofa, putting the coffee table between them. John watched as Sherlock wrapped his robe tightly around himself and pulled his knees up to his chest, long toes flexing on the edge of the cushion as the tall man folded himself up, blue eyes still watching John from above his knees.

“But at the crime scene…” Sherlock said in a low voice, the thumb and forefinger of one hand pinching a bit of his dressing gown on his knee and worrying it. John was watching every little movement he made now. What little tics had he missed in the last few weeks? He hadn’t really noticed the detective flinching away from anyone. _But physical contact seemed to do something,_ John thought, making a mental note to be more careful about touching Sherlock in the future. That thought made John remember his most egregious offence against Sherlock’s person, the punch he’d thrown after their first flight.

“You scared the shit out of me, Sherlock. You’re lucky I didn’t throw up on you.” John said. He felt bad about it now, knowing what Victor had once done. “But I don’t usually hit people. It was wrong of me to do it.” 

“You don’t need to apologize,” Sherlock said.

“But I should,” John huffed, and Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. John picked up the book from where it’d been left on the table. “Now, explain to me why exactly you tried to provoke me into punching you?” he asked, setting it down between them on the coffee table. John watched Sherlock’s toes wiggle for a moment on the cushion, long toes spaying and curling a couple times before his feet crossed, one covering the other to stay the movement. His gaze drifted up to see Sherlock’s fingers still worrying that same bit of fabric before they too stopped. Sherlock let out a large sigh.

“I was testing you. Watching you for signs that you might be like Victor or his predecessors. What makes you violent? Are you possessive? What would send you finally screaming to Mycroft or Lestrade to beg for a transfer? Do I need to get rid of you?” Sherlock said, eyes fixed on the textbook. “But you haven’t shown any signs. You didn’t seem to mind my silence, you backed away when I ignored you, you didn’t snatch away my violin last night, you haven’t touched my things or my bedroom, and you did… that just now.” He waved a hand at the patch of carpet where John had tickled him.

“Tickled you,” John finished with a small smile.

“Yes, that.” Sherlock’s face was deadpan, nearly a frown as he broke eye contact. “You are not like the others,” he muttered eyes flicking to John again after a moment.

“Well, of course I’m not. I don’t know how long you and Victor were together-”

“Six years,” Sherlock filled in. John paused and Sherlock added, “There were fourteen before him. He lasted the longest.”

“Were all of them as… physical as him?” John asked. 

Sherlock sighed, eyes going towards the ceiling. He was quiet for a moment, as though he really had to dig back into whatever impressive filing system he kept.

“The first punished me. Three, five, eight, nine, twelve, thirteen, and fourteen all had various physical ways of showing their displeasure with my behavior, my deductions, my work, and my presence in their lives,” Sherlock listed, still staring at the ceiling. “Ten threw a teacup at my head before she left. Eleven was by far the kindest, a retired military rider,” John saw the corners of Sherlock’s lips twitch upwards in a tiny smile before they fell again, “he didn’t stay long, though. Two, four, six, and seven were idiots of the highest order.” 

“I’d say they were all assholes for how they treated you, except for maybe that eleventh one.” John said making Sherlock look at him again.

“You do realize I had more than just destroying your book planned? I was about to start up an experiment in the kitchen-”

“Can’t be more disturbing than finding a surprise hand in the fridge or eyeballs in the cupboard.” 

“-Really messy, something gory.”

“Messier than that egg? I’m still finding gooey spots on the floor. Gorier than surgery on a battlefield?”

“Something that involves rotting flesh out in the open.” 

“I can open the windows and find a fan, maybe borrow something better smelling from Mrs Hudson, make the flat smell like rotten meat and something attempting to mimic a flower.”

John chuckled when Sherlock’s nose scrunched as if at a remembered scent; surely other flatmates had attempted that combination before.

“I was going to play my violin louder, a bit of fiddling in the stairwell a little closer to your room,” Sherlock said once his face had unsoured. John could see a spark in the rider’s narrowed eyes. _Well, I can be stubborn too,_ John thought.

“I’ve been sleeping out with Hyperion lately anyway. I only just heard you playing last night. Your playing is incredible, by the way, I think it might have helped me sleep a bit better.” 

Sherlock’s cheekbones gained a little color at that, a faint blush at the sudden complement. “I could set fire to your chair.”

“And I can get a new one.” 

“Make sure you never get the paper intact again.”

“Internet, Sherlock.”

“Yes, but you enjoy reading it in print. You don’t type particularly fast and are not the most computer literate person in the world-”

“I can use a bloody laptop just fine, thank you very much,” John interrupted.

“But you prefer the paper: a printed newspaper was a bit of a luxury during your time in the service. Ever since you came to live here, you wake up in the morning and read the paper over breakfast. It would be a small annoyance piled atop my many others that you may have to live with.”  
“Sherlock, you’re not getting rid of me,” John finally announced 

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up. “I never said-” 

“You might not have said it but you sure seem to be trying awful hard, and I’m staying put.” John honestly liked the flat: it was nice and cozy, Mrs Hudson and Angus downstairs were good company, and Sherlock, for all his oddities, was fascinating to be around. 

Silence fell at that. Sherlock leaned over to lay his head on the arm of the sofa, knees still drawn up. “I enjoy your company,” Sherlock murmured. This time it was John’s turn to raise his eyebrows at him, and Sherlock said peevishly, “don’t look so shocked. You make for a nice sounding board, otherwise its just me talking to myself in an empty flat and making Mrs Hudson worry about my sanity.” 

“The skull.” John remembered seeing Sherlock carrying a human skull around with him in a handful of the videos he’d watched.

“Mrs Hudson took it in her last cleaning spree,” Sherlock said, eyes narrowing at the door. And then he said, “You’ve been watching the videos.” Those blue eyes zipped back to focus on John again.

“Yeah, and your website, fascinating stuff really,” John said with a small smile.

“Mostly inane comments from people wanting me to tell them if their spouses are cheating on them or coming to my personal website to comment on youtube videos,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Not all of them, and the ones you actually reply to sound interesting,” John said. He actually wished there were more to the replies; often when reading through them there was only the plea for help and a brief explanation and Sherlocks incredibly short but no less interesting reply like ‘the sister-in-law did it, the fish is dead, vacuum cleaner was the murder weapon’ 

“You know you say that a lot?” Sherlock replied.

“What?”

“Fascinating, interesting, amazing,” he sing-songed, lifting his head off the arm of the sofa a bit before hunching back down with his cheek smushed into the leather and his shoulders round his ears.

“I can stop if you’d like,” John said lightly.

“No, its… nice.” 

John watched as Sherlock stared resolutely forward at the desk to John’s left rather than directly at him even as a tiny twitch of a smile formed on his lips. It was almost like Sherlock’s face didn’t know how to handle the conflicting emotions, enjoying John’s complement and still retaining his defensive attitude.

The doorbell rang, causing them both to look in the direction of the stairs. When Sherlock didn’t move to get up John did, only to have Mrs Hudson call up the stairs, “I’ve got it boys,” the moment he hit the top step.

“It’s the post; the delivery boy always holds the bell a few seconds too long. Mrs Hudson was waiting for something to come from her pen pal in Amsterdam, has been now for the last day or so,” Sherlock said, finally stretching out along the the sofa with a sigh. John stood in the doorway a moment watching Sherlock’s toes flex on the nearby arm. The rider gave another good stretch before settling with one arm still protecting his belly and the other flung dramatically over his eyes. 

Mrs Hudson came up the stairs a moment later. “John, this came for you,” she said, holding out a large envelope towards him.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” John replied, taking the package from her; he noticed Angus was lurking right at her hip and watching John carefully. “Angus, I’m not hurting Sherlock, we’re fine, okay?” he said reaching out to pat the top of Angus’ head.

“Oh don’t mind him dear, he’ll warm up to you again soon enough,” Mrs Hudson said, glancing down at Angus. Angus appeared to be conflicted on whether he should like the petting or not, before deciding not, huffed, and stalked back down the stairs. Mrs Hudson chuckled when he didn’t go all the way down, sitting and peering around the banister up at her. John was sure if he could hear Angus’ thoughts the small dragon would be saying ‘I’ve got my eye on you.’ As it was the squinted eyes and flattened frills were a hand gesture away from conveying the thought.

“I hope so,” John said with a huff of a chuckle at Angus’ watchful display, before turning to go back into the sitting room.

As he re-entered the flat he saw Sherlock returning a box to a spot hidden under the edge of the sofa.

“Just the one,” Sherlock said, peeling open a round nicotine patch and slapping it onto a bared forearm.

“You know those aren’t good to use all the time, right?”

“Haven’t had one in a week, it’s either this or smoke,” Sherlock said, leaning back into the cushions of the sofa. John let the argument die, so long as Sherlock wasn’t poisoning himself it was better to have him using the patches than killing himself slowly with the cigarettes.

“I wasn’t his mate.” Sherlock spoke quietly, while John wandered into the kitchen for scissors. He froze at the statement.

“What?” John replied, turning back to Sherlock, who stared up at the ceiling like he was confessing to something on a psychiatrist’s couch rather than just talking to John on their sofa. 

“You said earlier that Hyperion told you I was Victor’s mate. I wasn’t,” Sherlock said to the cobweb in the corner above his head. “He was a possessive arse who had the libido of a rabbit but was being paid to ‘look after me in his spare time’ so he chose the closest option for a fuck.” 

John wasn’t really sure what to do with that bit of information; a part of him wanted Sherlock to elaborate, considering that Victor had been to some degree physically abusive towards Sherlock; a sexual relationship of any kind couldn’t have been exactly healthy. Another part of him was shouting to drop the topic then and there. That opening that particular can of worms was not something he wanted to tackle just now with their relationship as flatmates being so new. 

John hadn’t expected all this to come to the fore when he demanded Sherlock talk to him. Knowing about Victor’s inappropriate behavior made John feel unsettled about his own thoughts. John had certainly been admiring Sherlock’s long pale body earlier when presented with it in the nude, but this new bit of information popped like a bright red flag in his mind telling him in no uncertain terms to back off. Sherlock had taken some level of abuse from most of his former flatmates for most of his adult life; he didn’t need his newest one lusting after him within only a few days of knowing him.

And a tiny, vile part of John, one that he stomped back right away, chimed, _Sherlock is interested in men…_ and before that thought could wander down the garden trail into the true vulgarity of _is he good in bed?_ and beyond, John smashed it.

The flat was still as John tried to figure out what to say, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, scissors and envelope in hand, Sherlock stretched out and still staring at the ceiling on the sofa. The only real movement in the flat was the concavity of Sherlock’s belly as he breathed and the little dust motes in the afternoon light coming through the window near his head. 

“Do you mind if I pass that on to Hyperion?” John finally asked, feeling like a little bit of an arse the moment he said it, considering the myriad of other conversational branches he could have taken. “Just the mate bit, not the other… bits,” he clarified. He had no intention of telling Hyperion the somewhat ugly side of his previous rider if the dragon didn’t already know; let Hyperion’s memories of his beloved rider stay happy.

“I don’t care,” Sherlock replied. “If he’s been paying close enough attention he might already know from you thinking about it so hard, but I doubt it.”

John felt like he should be insulted on Hyperion’s part at the tiny barb from Sherlock, even as he gave the bond they shared a nudge and found that the dragon was dozing again. Not completely asleep, but not awake enough to have caught any of John’s thoughts about the shards of information Sherlock had shared about his past. He decided to leave Hyperion to his rest, John would share it with him later. 

John glanced at the thick envelope still in his hands, edges mildly crumpled from where he’d subconsciously been fiddling with them. Taking that opportunity to depart from the topic of Victor, John cut open the mailer to find a thin sheaf of papers with a sticky note on the front of it. 

"It's my class schedule, er, our class schedule I guess." John said more to himself as he read the note from Lestrade.

“Oh joy,” Sherlock grumbled from right over his shoulder, making John jump at his sudden close proximity.

“What?” John asked as Sherlock pulled the papers out of his hand and began flipping through them. “You’ve done all this before, I’m the one who is new to all this.”

“You are like a toddler, stupid and easily entertained. Everything in these classes will be new to you and you will be soaking up fresh information. I, on the other hand, grew up with this, I was born and raised with a dragon looming over me; all this is old, stale, repetitious, dull. I get to sit and let my brain rot while another rider putters around the blackboard reciting things I knew by the time I was 8.” John watched Sherlock’s eyes dart over the pages in his hand, tall man leaning with his back against the door jamb next to him with a disgruntled frown slowly growing on his face.

“Getting to see why that one flatmate of yours chucked a teacup at you,” John said with a slight frown at being called a stupid infant. Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to meet his with a smidge of surprise in his raised eyebrows before he went back to looking at the papers.

“Oh don’t look like that, practically everyone who hasn’t grown up in or around an Aerie is,” he said, clearly understanding what he’d said to make John frown and seeming not to care. John saw the flicker of emotion though. Sherlock was used to saying things like that and getting a more vicious reaction than the one he’d received. _It’s going to take some time for us to get used to each other I guess,_ John thought, sighing, and turning to the kitchen for a drink.

“I don’t care that you think these classes are stupid, I still need to take them and you need to come with me and be my tutor,” John said as he reached for a clean glass in the cupboard. “The sooner I get educated,” he swallowed at the thought of the next step, “and into the sky, the sooner you can go out flying on your own again and terrorizing Lestrade and Mycroft. Drink?” John lifted a glass of wine for Sherlock to see. He heard Sherlock sigh and the rider appeared around the corner, putting the papers down on the table.

“I can inconvenience them without being able to fly Bellamy,” Sherlock grumbled, reaching out for an offered glass.

“That’s not the point, Sherlock,” John said. He took up the class papers and sat in his armchair to start thumbing through them, as Sherlock took a seat in his own.


	9. A Day Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much nautilicious for being my beta.

At first sitting in on classes with Sherlock was something of an awkward affair, since they were the only adults in a room full of children all roughly the age of ten. The first day in classes the teacher introduced him and told the nestlings that “Dr Watson would be sitting in on our lessons,” before directing him and Sherlock to the back of the room. 

The first couple of days were filled with small faces peeking back at the both of them throughout the lectures. The children obviously knew Sherlock, but John was still a curiosity. They knew he had Hyperion but otherwise the new rider was a mystery to them. Slowly one or two of them would come up to John during their breaks and say hello.

It wasn’t like they were sitting in on learning maths or English all over again, all of the classes they were scheduled for were in Draconic Studies. John scribbled down notes, fascinated by what he was learning, while Sherlock sat next to him and either looked overwhelmingly bored or fiddled with his phone, seemingly oblivious to whatever was being said. 

It was during their first class with Jim as the teacher that Sherlock interrupted the lesson in spectacular fashion.

“Can anyone tell me all six of the methods dragons use to defend themselves?” Jim asked, black eyes flicking over the students. When no one volunteered to answer he picked a child at random.

“Fire, venom, acid, biting, er, water, er…” the boy trailed off, unable to finish the answer. John heard a loud sigh next to him, which he was sure was heard by the rest of the quiet room as a handful of heads turned to look at Sherlock, who hadn’t made so much as a peep during classes yet.

“Sher-Sherlock? You have something to add?” Jim stuttered out, eyes locking onto the pair of them sitting against the back wall.

Sherlock huffed another sigh, rolling his eyes as he set down his phone. “It’s not six anymore, it’s eight. If you are going to be molding the young minds of the next batch of riders, do your research and get it right, for God’s sake.” Sherlock said.

There was a beat of silence and John watched as heads whipped back to stare at Jim, who was still staring at Sherlock with a nearly predatory gaze. John watched as Jim licked his lower lip before biting it.

“Well, Sherlock, enlighten us,” he finally said, eyebrows rising and head tilting a little to the side. With the look Jim was giving Sherlock, John was not surprised that the children were not overly fond of Jim as a teacher: the man was strangely intimidating in a quiet, snake-like way, one moment drawling on through a lesson and the moment something interrupted his stride he looked ready to strike at whatever stood in his way.

Sherlock huffed again, straightening up in his seat. “Brute strength, claws, teeth, scales, weight, basically the ability to crush or maim an attacker. Fire, second most common after that. Venom, acid, boiling water, and poison excretion are the six you were referring to. But research has shown that many breeds of North American dragons such as the Thunderbelly use sound as a defensive measure, either by emitting loud concussive booms or in the case of some found on more southern regions, high-pitched shrieks meant to daze and confuse both predator and prey. As for the eighth, and the fact that this was missed is a travesty considering we have many examples living within this very Aerie, is camouflage through either color change or natural coloration. Even with all of the various colors achieved by selective breeding over centuries we do still have plenty of examples of natural camouflage and even one of our senior commanders rides a dragon with extreme color changing capabilities. The fact that you missed one so obvious should be a testament to how poor of a teacher you are.” 

By the time he was done with his rather vicious rant, John was staring at him with wide eyes. Jim’s nostrils flared and John could see a small twitch ticking at his right eyelid. With a quick inhale Jim moved over to the desk next to the board and sat, eyelid still twitching faintly.

“Class dismissed for an early lunch. Dr Watson, if you would please escort the children to the cafeteria?” Jim said, looking at whatever was on his desk.

“Oh? Er, sure.”

The children all quickly began grabbing their things and shuffling out the door, all of them staying quiet as they moved past Jim’s desk. John, slightly confused by what just happened picked up his things and followed them, Sherlock trudging along behind him. 

“Sherlock, that was a bit not good,” John said, once the door was closed behind them.

“I was only telling him the truth.” Sherlock looked down at John with a raised eyebrow. “Surely you would agree that telling him what he did wrong would be better than letting the children go with gaps in their education?” 

“Sherlock, you could have been kinder about it,” John said. “You should apologize to him.” The moment he turned to go back to the door, though, John heard the loud clicks of it locking.

“You were saying?” Sherlock prompted with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, apologize later then,” John said, turning back to the group of nestlings all looking at the pair of adults. John approached them, schooling his face into a friendlier look than the grumpy scowl he’d been fixing on Sherlock. “So, how about we all go get lunch? Stay in your group now and don’t run off, Sherlock and I will be right behind you,” he instructed. The nestlings nodded and on their own formed their own sort of organized line and promptly let it dissolve into the usual gaggle of children as soon as they left the school’s courtyard.

Mary hung back near John on their walk, not saying much but just keeping close. Sitting in on classes she was in had given John a chance to see how picked on she was by bigger classmates. She had a few friends among the children who shared her house with Mrs Turner, but otherwise she was fairly alone. She counted older riders who showed her kindness as friends, which was most of them it seemed, including John and even Sherlock.

“Mr Moriarty isn’t going to be happy for the rest of the day now probably,” Mary said, sitting at lunch.

“Stuff sets him off all the time, he’ll probably take a day or two off and come back again like he usually does,” a boy sitting a couple seats down said, garnering a handful of murmured assents from the rest of the class sitting at the large round table.

“You mean he does this all the time?” John asked.

“Well, not really all the time,” the boy said, swallowing a mouthful of sandwich, “just funny things set Mr Moriarty off and make him go all quiet and twitchy like that. Doesn’t usually happen in the middle of the day like this though. But yeah, then he goes away for a few days, we get another teacher for a while and he comes back and tries again, longest he went without a spell was three weeks, back at the beginning of the year.” 

“That’s alright, having a bunch of different teachers?” John asked, a little worried by the fact that Jim seemed to disappear off and on fairly frequently.

“Oh no, there’s loads of good riders around here who can teach the lessons,” piped in another boy.

“Mr Moriarty’s normally alright too, he must have just been forgetful today. We’ve been over that bit before, and he did it right the other time” said a tall girl from the other side of the table. John didn’t miss her small scowl aimed at Sherlock; he remembered being on the receiving end of his fair share of those from Harry as a kid.

“How come you all don’t call him Jim?” John asked curiously, noticing that all of the nestlings, including Mary, called Jim by his last name.

“We’re not allowed to, he says he doesn’t care what other riders say, he is Mr Moriarty, our teacher. We get to call him Jim if or when we get our dragons and become proper riders and keepers,” Mary said seriously.

“Oh,” John replied. As unimposing as Jim seemed, he appeared to have a tough, more ‘teacherly’ side somewhere inside with a comment like that. So far John hadn’t met a rider that imposed that sort of rule on the nestlings, they only seemed to call the Masters by their title out of habit and genuine respect, not so much a forced imposition. Sherlock wasn’t Mr Holmes, and John wasn’t Dr Watson, though a couple still called him that anyway out of sheer unfamiliarity.

Sherlock said nothing during the break, just fiddled with his phone like usual. John left him to his thoughts and rounded up the children to return at the usual time they would go back, for lack of anywhere else to go.

By the time they arrived, the door to Jim’s classroom sat open and other classes around them were returning from their lunch and filtering into their separate classrooms. John peered into the room first, just in case Jim was still indisposed somehow, but all he found was the pale man scribbling away on the chalkboard, his hair in a frazzled disarray and a little color in his cheeks but otherwise looking alright. John coughed lightly to get his attention. Jim’s dark eyes locked onto him in an instant, hand stilling with chalk still to the board.

“Is it alright for the children to come back in?” John asked calmly.

“Children? Oh, oh yes! come in,” Jim said, setting the chalk down and raking hands through his hair, streaking the black with chalky white strands. He straightened his clothes as well, tugging on the waistcoat he wore and the cuffs and collar of his shirt, trying to hastily fix his somewhat disheveled appearance.

Sherlock entered last, the nestlings all settling back at their desks. John saw him start to sidle towards their usual spot at the back and reached to tug lightly at his coat cuff.

“Sherlock, you need to apologize,” John said quietly, raising his eyebrows and nodding towards Jim, who was now trying to pat the chalk dust off himself, making a couple of the kids snicker.

John noticed the piercing blue eyes dart to his hand momentarily; he knew Sherlock was still waiting for John to haul off and deck him on some small level, but not here, so those eyes quickly rolled with a put upon huff before shaking John’s hand off and stepping closer. 

“I have been told that I should apologize for my earlier behavior,” Sherlock stated bluntly, making Jim spin around to look up at Sherlock with wide eyes.

“Oh! No no no no no, that-that was all my mistake,” Jim stammered out, making John’s eyebrows rise at how much he was nearly scraping and bowing before Sherlock, “you-you’re… you were right I had missed something, it’s been fixed.” There was a tiny twitch at the corner of Jim’s mouth that gave him a slightly unhinged look when combined with his wide eyes and chalk-dusted hair. John didn’t have to wonder why the children weren’t particularly fond of him as their teacher: if they’d seen him act like this multiple times before, John could understand their discomfort.

Sherlock didn’t appear to notice or care about Jim’s strange behavior, simply gave John a glance that said ‘I told you so’ and resumed his path back towards the back of the room. “Come along, John,” Sherlock murmured quietly as he passed him.

“Now, let’s continue our review, hm?” Jim said, calling all the nestling’s attention to him and resuming the lecture, albeit with a slight fog of unease settling over the classroom as Jim seemed oddly perky after what had happened earlier.

“He gets off on being disciplined,” Sherlock said later once they were beyond the school halls and walking back towards the flat.

John nearly stopped in his tracks at the statement, falling a few steps behind before hurrying up next to Sherlock again. “Sherlock!” John hissed, eyes darting to make sure none of the others nearby seemed as if they’d heard.

“It’s true: clear pupil dilation, nostrils flaring, blushing, he was flustered, hot and bothered you might say, before he sent us and the nestlings away, not to mention the state of his clothes and the sort of spring in his step when we returned…” Sherlock drifted off raising an eyebrow at John, implying something.

“Sherlock that’s--” John didn’t know how to finish that sentence. On the one hand he was impressed by his flatmate’s deductive skills and pointing out things John had certainly missed, but on the other it was a little on the disgusting end to think that Jim had done anything remotely sexual in that classroom while they’d been out. “Rude,” he settled on. “Fascinating, but rude.” John added.

True to Mary and Molly’s words, Hyperion began to turn a little more ashen in color. John noticed that night while he and Sherlock ate dinner in Hyperion’s pit.

“Hyperion is in need of a soak,” Sherlock commented, picking at the food Angelo had happily packed up just for him.

“So I’ve been told, both Mary and Molly have said so,” John replied, looking over at his dragon, who had re-settled onto his mat and lay with his head stretched out near one of his newest bushy additions, a blue hydrangea.

John had found out that Sherlock was the one who had kept the plants in Hyperion’s enclosure alive while its occupant had been gone. It had been a mildly startling revelation a few days into their first week in classes. John had been drawn out to sleep by Hyperion’s side again despite his therapist’s advice; a nightmare featuring the open gut of a fellow soldier and the piteous screams of others for his help had driven him out into the cool night with a pillow. 

The next morning the sound of the door opening and thudding closed followed by the scrape of wheels across the floor woke John. His first thought darted to having overslept and the wheels were Tom and Mary coming to feed Hyperion, but the dragon lay curled and sleeping soundly right next to him, and there had been no accompanying knock or call asking for entry. Whoever this was had just barged on in unannounced. 

He sat up a bit more, out of the blanket cocoon he had rolled himself into against Hyperion’s forearm, and turned to peek over the broad sandy scales. He squinted in the dim morning light only to see a dark figure pulling some sort of a drum on wheels behind them. John quietly slid off Hyperion’s mat, wrapping the orange blanket he still had yet to return to Sherlock around himself, and approached the man who had stopped near the sofa against the wall.

“Sherlock?” John cried before being doused with what he really hoped was water. Sherlock clicked off the spray almost instantly as John sputtered and tried to wipe his face off.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing here?” John asked, hearing Hyperion snort awake behind him accompanied by a sudden burst of curiosity along the bond.

“Watering the plants,” Sherlock replied, brandishing the spray nozzle in his hand hooked up to the drum behind him. John had obviously startled the other rider as much as Sherlock had him if the large blue eyes and raised eyebrows were any indicator. Sherlock hardly looked like he was about to go gardening in his usual black trousers sans black jacket and in a white button-up with the sleeves rolled to the elbows.

“At this time of the morning?” John questioned, peeling off the now sodden knit blanket and tossing it down with a wet squelch.

“Who else would be keeping them alive?” Sherlock replied with his own question

“I, erm--,”John had honestly thought it was an Aerie worker who had been tending to the plants in Hyperion’s pit, considering none of them had started to go brown and die since he’d arrived. He hadn’t really given it too much thought otherwise. John certainly hadn’t figured on the gardener being Sherlock, of all people. “Didn’t think it was you, to be honest.” John finally said.

Sherlock turned back to the various shrubs and flowers, starting the spray again. “You’ve seen Bellamy’s pit, I do not trust anyone to keep her garden alive and properly cared for.”

“Yes, but that’s Bellamy, what are you doing over here in the wee hours of the morning?” John knew that Sherlock’s statement wasn’t entirely true just from talking to Mary, who divulged all sorts of little tidbits speaking her mind about the riders she’d been assigned to as she rambled on at John. She had mentioned helping him with his ‘gardening’ during her assignment in the form of dragging away smaller branches Sherlock had trimmed and moving planters around.

Sherlock didn’t seem to have an immediate answer for John’s question as he continued his tending. “Bored, thinking,” Sherlock replied, “contemplating when I should approach you about installing more greenery in Hyperion’s pit,” Sherlock expanded further, as if he knew what John was about to ask. 

John did think Hyperion’s quarters were a bit bare, but with Mycroft’s Damir and Bellamy’s pits for comparison he honestly had no idea what was really ‘proper’ furnishing. From what Hyperion had shared with John, his dwelling hadn’t really changed all that much since he was small aside from some cabinets and what plants were there and their replacements when they died or were burned.

“I did give some thought to just simply getting Wiggins to slowly introduce more planters to the edges, an experiment possibly in how long it would take for you to notice. Victor didn’t take it well when I tried it before--”

“It would be nice” John said interrupting Sherlock’s explanation. “That is, if Hyperion would like it. I haven’t got a clue on that front if I’m honest, decorating a pit.” John admitted.

“Of course you don’t, that sort of thing is learned as a nestling, spending time helping resident riders, seeing how the different breeds like their pits,” Sherlock said, not much venom in the small barb at John’s inexperience.

“Bellamy seems to like her small jungle.” 

“I’ve been tending to it since she was a hatchling, her pit came with a couple of trees to start. It was a mess of climbing beams from before I was given it and began growing things.”

“Climbing beams?” John asked. 

“A Suchivat lived in the pit before Bellamy, an Indian Pricklejaw,” Sherlock said before he seemed to realized John wouldn’t know what exactly that was and why it would need features for climbing in its home. “They’re a very arboreal species, rarely touching the ground in their native habitat. They sleep curled like snakes in the Y’s of trees, just thick enough in the shoulders to be fitted for a single rider’s saddle, very long-bodied and quick. That one retired to live out the remainder of its days somewhere near Katmandu.” Sherlock rambled off storing away the sprayer, finished with his watering.

John couldn’t help but smile a bit at Sherlock. He enjoyed listening to that voice rattling off facts about dragons; about as much as it seemed Sherlock liked showing off that knowledge. John poked at Hyperion’s drowsy end of the bond to ask if Hyperion would like to have some new plants from Bellamy’s pit. Hyperion replied with a happy feeling yes, but followed quickly with a strange negative feeling that made John’s nose crinkle accompanied by a memory of a young Hyperion’s tail crushing a small Lavender plant, _No smelly ones, got it,_ John replied.

“I think Hyperion would like some new plants,” John said, refocusing on Sherlock, who had left him standing next to the propped up watering barrel and had gone to the storage chest containing the gardening tools. “Just please, nothing too... scented, I guess is what he’s getting at.”

“I don’t keep anything particularly pungent anyway, many dragon species have sensitive olfactory systems, Ridgeback breeds among them,” Sherlock replied, sitting up with a pair of small pruning shears in hand.

John stood watching Sherlock deadheading flowers from the fuchsia bush quietly for a moment. “So, gardening, is this your secret talent or something?” John finally asked in a poor attempt to get Sherlock to either turn around or talk to him and distract him from his flatmate’s lovely rear bent over tending flowers.

Sherlock snorted, “Hardly, Mummy was a rider, Father was an Aerie worker, he particularly enjoyed gardening and worked as a greenskeeper often. I was helping him tend his houseplants while I was learning to walk.”

The mental image of a tiny Sherlock watering flowerboxes made John chuckle. “Oh, where are they? Your mother’s a rider?” John asked curiously.

“They’ve semi-retired to a small Aerie near Fitton, Mummy runs the post now and then still, otherwise they’ve become something of globetrotters in their old age,” Sherlock said with an odd mix of his average sulky attitude and a bit of badly concealed fondness. John watched Sherlock’s eyes dart to him and swore Sherlock’s face began to redden a little along his cheekbones; he coughed. “Not that that matters to the topic at hand,” Sherlock returned to his pruning.

“And that would be?” John questioned, amused by the rider’s hurried subject change.

“Plants for Hyperion,” Sherlock sniffed, “do keep up.”

Which led to them eating dinner with Hyperion a handful of days later. Sherlock had enlisted the help of his nestling Wiggins along with Mary to help the both of them move plants, and they had managed to shuffle a rather impressive number of mostly smaller planters and a couple more bushes. In the end, even though they weren’t as big as some of the decades old vegetation, they added a nice level of green to Hyperion’s fairly bare enclosure.

Hyperion inspected each container as it entered, sitting near the open doors and scenting the new additions, making sure there weren’t any ‘smelly things’ among them. It was one of the most active days he’d seen from Hyperion since they’d arrived at the Aerie. The dragon was up and hobbling around, going from sitting to following either Sherlock or the kids. 

Hyperion seemed very interested in Sherlock. John could feel through the bond all of his curiosity when it came to the other rider he’d rarely seen before. It felt a little strange how much Hyperion seemed to enjoy the way Sherlock smelled, scenting the rider with his tongue whenever he walked through the door. _Her_ was a prominent thought, Sherlock smelled like Bellamy, and John grinned as he came closer to recognizing a feeling similar to a crush humming quietly on the bond. Hyperion wanted the plants because they had once been Bellamy’s more than just for the added creature comfort of new greenery.

Once done moving plants Sherlock dismissed Wiggins and Mary to dinner with their respective housekeepers.

“We could have dinner out here,” John suggested, watching Hyperion delicately nudge a planter into a more preferred spot.

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock replied

“I’ve had dinner in Bellamy’s pit, it’s a nice evening, you need to eat something. Don’t think I didn’t notice you skimping on lunch today,” John added when he saw Sherlock open his mouth to protest the fact he needed to eat.

John had gone and gotten the food while Sherlock stayed with Hyperion, supervising and helping the dragon arrange things. He kept an eye on the bond the entire time, not entirely for safety purposes but because feeling Hyperion interact with Sherlock was endearing. Sherlock treated Hyperion with the same sort of affection John had glimpsed him using with Bellamy, the kind he showed when no one but the dragons were around, and it warmed John’s heart a little even though he wasn’t really the one receiving the affection.

The next morning John nearly punched Sherlock in the face. Not out of anger or any conscious reason, but because Sherlock decided to knock on his door in such a way as to cause it to slam open with a loud bang, startling John awake.

“John we--”

“What the fuck Sherlock?” John yelled, staring bleary-eyed at the tall rider’s silhouette in the doorway. Sherlock took a step back at first.

“I was saying we can go to the baths, I just got a text back from Molly.”

A primal sleepy part of John wanted to toss something at Sherlock and tell him to get out of his room, but John resisted, sighing and rubbing his eyes. “What time?” He grumbled.

“Any time after 10am,” Sherlock replied.

“And what time is it now?” John asked, hand reaching to find his phone on the bedside table and instead flicking the lamp on.

“8am.” With better lighting John saw Sherlock’s eyes roaming the room and flicking to and away from John, who sat bare-chested with the blanket pooled in his lap.

“Sherlock, if you woke Molly up texting her about this whole bathing business--”

“I didn’t wake her up, Molly is normally up early, even on weekends,” Sherlock said, already turning to go back downstairs.

John sat and grumbled at the morning light for a moment before grabbing his robe and shuffling downstairs for a morning coffee. Sherlock was energetic, tapping his heel restlessly against the rug as he sat in his chair watching John make coffee.

“What’s got you so wound up?” John asked once the pot was on to brew. He hadn’t really seen Sherlock this hectic in weeks, not since the pink smuggler case.

“Something to do,” Sherlock said shortly.

“We go to classes nearly every day and we moved the plants yesterday,” John said, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock as he leaned against the countertop. Hyperion’s leg was bothering him this morning a bit, _should have brought the cane down,_ John thought, looking up at the ceiling and not wanting to go back up and get it.

“Drivel,” Sherlock snorted. “This is something Bellamy can do. She hasn’t flown in weeks now; her feedings have been backed off with her inactivity. She is restless,” Sherlock said, as though Bellamy’s restlessness were his own, tapping fingers and overall appearing to nearly be vibrating out of his skin with the urge to get up and walk around but staying put.

John felt a pang of sympathy for the both of them just then. He hadn’t really thought much about the fact that Bellamy was still very much grounded, and her rider had been sitting next to John for hours every day being bored out of his mind. John doubted she saw Sherlock much during her waking hours. The plant-shuffling the previous day was probably the most Bellamy had seen her rider in at least a week. The pair had their bond but John knew that just wasn’t the same as physically being with the dragon. 

Also, John hadn’t seen Sherlock solve a single case in weeks; if he was doing them at all it was on his phone or laptop and he was being incredibly quiet about it. Outside of the odd violin playing in the night and sometimes when John was reading or Sherlock fiddling with one of his frankly disgusting experiments on the kitchen table, Sherlock hadn’t gotten up to much at all really since his sentencing and subsequent quiet spell.

“We can go in a couple hours when Molly said so,” John said calmly, going to make some breakfast for himself and Sherlock. “Just let me get some food and coffee in and put some proper clothes on first.” Sherlock was already dressed in his usual trim suit and button-up shirt, which made John question how long the other rider had actually been up. 

Bellamy nearly bowled into the door when Sherlock entered, she seemed just as antsy to get up and move as her rider. Sherlock had about enough time to hit the interior switch that would open the larger doors for her before she scooped him up onto her nose and lifted Sherlock clear into the air. John watched Sherlock settle, straddling her slender nose and rub the space between her eyes. Bellamy sat back on her haunches and put her talons into a bowl underneath Sherlock, prepared to catch him should he fall, even though John was sure that was unlikely to happen.

“Sherlock, we can’t rush this,” John called up to him. “Hyperion’s not been out since he got here.”

John could almost see those light colored eyes roll from all the way on the ground, “So good of you to state the obvious, John!” Sherlock called back, crawling up and turning to sit in the gap between Bellamy’s horns. She brought herself back down to all fours once he was settled there.

“Go get Hyperion already,” Sherlock commanded at John from his high perch atop Bellamy’s head. 

John hobbled across, cane in hand. Hyperion sat waiting for him on the other side of the door, not nearly as energetic as Bellamy but no less happy to be allowed to go out and walk outside with John. The doors opened and Hyperion gingerly got to his feet and walked through them. John could feel Hyperion’s happiness at being out and about, it was similar to the feeling of getting out of class and going to recess as a kid, or leaving a stuffy office building on a sunny day and going for a walk in a park. Hyperion let out a large sigh and gave a small aborted stretch of his wings, obviously wanting to give a good full stretch but his injuries and the size of the hall prevented him from doing so.

John turned to Bellamy’s door in time to watch Sherlock scoot himself back a little to where his legs straddled the back of her head behind her horns, and much like a child riding a banister, slid down the length of her smooth silvery neck. John’s stomach gave a momentary twinge at the sight of Sherlock making the controlled drop, but her rider came to a halt right in the spot his saddle would have been between her shoulders. John saw Bellamy turn her head to glance at her reckless rider with a small snort. She sidled up to Hyperion, the pair of them taking up much of the hall standing side by side.

“She will be his support if he has trouble walking,” Sherlock said as Bellamy gently lifted her wing out of the way and pressed her shoulder to Hyperion’s. The pair began walking, John walking along between them. John could see the two dragons sharing subtle body language and his bond made him privy to Hyperion’s thoughts: gratitude, a hint of shame at needing the help, an all encompassing joy at being out, and underneath it all an incredibly faint feeling of adoration, the kind that made John himself want to lean into Bellamy and rub his face on her smooth scales if he concentrated on it too hard.

“You’re just looking for an excuse to get her out of her pit,” John chuckled, taking his mind off of the bond.

“Honestly? Yes, I wanted to let her out. But she also needs a bit of a soak, and Hyperion does need assistance, why not take advantage of that situation in order to satisfy another one?” Sherlock asked, looking down at John from his perch on Bellamy’s shoulders. John just smiled at the thinly veiled attempt to make what Sherlock was doing sound purely selfish.

A part of John wanted to get up between Hyperion’s shoulders too, but he didn’t want to create more burden for the dragon to carry and didn’t want to struggle his way up with his bad shoulder, so walking it was.

They were allowed to cross the landing field rather than walk around its perimeter in order to reach the baths in the Veterinary division. John began to feel Hyperion’s wounds aching around the midway point across the field, but they did little to dampen Hyperion’s happy mood. The dragon was so happy just to see other dragons for the first time in weeks, his head turning to and fro looking at the incoming and outgoing traffic of the landing field.

The dragon baths were incredible to see, John had been briefly driven past the entrance during his tour but had yet to see inside. The whole area was massive, the gigantic oval of a pool at its center creating almost an arena-like appearance. One end of the pool sloped into the water like a beach, allowing dragons to simply walk in gradually. The opposite end, so deep the water turned dark, was just a straight drop like a regular pool. The reason for that John could see as they entered; there were large sturdy cranes mounted along the top of the wall, the arms of which swung out over the water. There was a dragon roughly half the size of Hyperion suspended by broad straps connected to a crane being lifted from the water and set down on one of the many stone steps around the edge of the room. 

Smaller pools connected to the sides of the larger one, looking much like shallow tidepools. Smaller dragons like Angus sat in those pools being cleaned by keepers and workers alike. There were many dragons already there, most sunning themselves on the rock steps arranged in differently shaped terraces, wings spread in a rather beautiful display of colors and patterns.

“Hyperion and Bellamy,” called a woman at a table near the entrance. She had a binder of papers open before her and waved for John to come over, “Dr Hooper said you would be here soon, if you could please just sign in, she wants to get him back onto a regular bathing schedule,” she said with a smile.

John was bending to sign when a large silver fist descended next to him and Sherlock was placed like a doll next to John. Sherlock huffed at the manhandling but snatched up a pen, signing Bellamy’s name in as well.

“If you would like to swim with your dragons there are changing rooms and lockers just this way.” The woman indicated a unisex bathroom door in the wall behind her. John was about to decline, not having bought a pair of swimwear since his arrival, when Sherlock interrupted him by grabbing his arm and dragging him towards the door. 

Sherlock shoved him into a stall and threw a pair of swim shorts over the door. They landed on him. “Sherlock, I can’t wear these,” John said.

“Why not? They’re appropriate attire, you just saw other riders, workers, and nestlings in the same thing.” Sherlock said from the stall next to him, their voices echoing against the stone walls.

“They’re yours!” John hissed at the wall, trying to keep his voice down in case others entered.

“They’re clean, brand new, just put them on.” John heard the door next to his open and Sherlock’s bare feet leaving.

“Sherlock?” John called, getting no reply. He sighed looking down at the shorts, gave in and put them on.

He looked in the mirror outside the stalls. Considering they came from Sherlock they fit oddly well, just a nice pair of dark burgundy shorts with white stitching and drawstring. They came to his knees, and though a smidge baggy in the waist didn’t feel like they were about to fall off. Pulling at the fabric a little more and adjusting himself, John let out a resigned sigh and stored the rest of his clothes.

By the time he came out Bellamy was already in the water, Sherlock nowhere to be found. Hyperion sat near the water's edge looking longingly at it. The moment John came out Hyperion’s head turned and John felt Hyperion urging him on through the bond, like a child pulling a parent eagerly towards something they wanted. John smiled and walked to him, no reason to keep his dragon from his bath any longer. A small handful of workers were already around Hyperion, checking him over.

“Go on Hyperion, I think you can get in now, right?” John said, looking to one of the nearby workers for confirmation. 

“Oh, yes, he can go,” the young man replied.

If it hadn’t been for the humans present around his feet John felt Hyperion would have bolted for the water in an instant. Even so he still tried to hurry, stepping over people and nearly belly sliding headfirst into the water.

Hyperion swimming was a new and odd sensation to feel along the bond, John felt like he had been dunked in the water already, the coolness running along his skin from head to toes as Hyperion submerged himself. John could almost feel Hyperion closing his nostrils against the water, making John open his mouth and gasp as Hyperion surfaced and snorted a fine mist off his face. 

John walked into the water after him, not even feeling the temperature difference that usually accompanied entering a pool. The soreness in his leg and shoulder coming from Hyperion’s injuries at the other end of the bond all but vanished when the water took Hyperion’s weight. Hyperion paddled a little deeper, rolling his body over in the water but keeping his head above it. The freedom of movement after so long of being cooped up in his pit translated across the bond as nearly a high, a euphoria. Hyperion wanted to dive and flip and breach and somersault in the water. _It feels a bit like flying,_ John figured a little breathlessly, floating nearby as he watched Hyperion enjoy himself, albeit a little clumsily. 

He was nowhere near as graceful as Bellamy, who was out in the deeper end. In the water she looked like a fish, her scales taking on even more of a shine, especially when she broke the surface and the sun caught water drops dripping off. And John found Sherlock once her head surfaced. The mad rider was hanging onto her horns while she swam, turning in lazy circles now on the surface. John watched him let go and she picked him up again, rolling onto her back and placing him on her belly. 

It was then John noticed a large sponge on a rope over his shoulder. Sherlock took it and started scrubbing her belly, Bellamy looking blissed-out as he continued. John couldn’t help but also notice Sherlock in tight black shorts like a wetsuit. He knelt on Bellamy’s chest, feet crossed under his arse as he leaned forward and scrubbed with both hands. Sherlock’s hair was plastered to his head, curls destroyed by the water but no less attractive, with a couple still struggling to maintain shape on his forehead. John was thankful for the cool water; getting an eyeful of barely-clothed Sherlock again-- the curve of his back as he scrubbed, his lean waist, those shoulders, the water drops accentuating the curves of his muscles and dripping from his face, those damn skin tight sleek shorts-- all worked together to make John’s cock try to send his brain an interested ‘hello’.

_No! No, no no!_ John thought, ripping his eyes off the handsome sight and going back to Hyperion who was floating with his wings stretched on the surface, nestlings and workers already swimming around him and climbing on him to clean him. _There are children present!_ John’s mind screamed, _Also rude, not good, he does not need his flatmate trying to get in his pants._ John glanced around to see if anyone had noticed him drooling over Sherlock.

He took a deep calming breath and swam towards Hyperion. While the pain from Hyperion had lessened, it didn’t erase the fact that John had his own shoulder to deal with, the one that wasn’t all in his mind. He swam with about as much finesse as his injured dragon but he did a fine job all things considered. A nestling handed him a sponge and another worker helped him onto Hyperion’s back. John realized that this was the first time he’d actually straddled Hyperion’s shoulders, right where his saddle would sit. Hyperion seemed to recognize the occasion as well, turning his head a bit so that he could see John out of the corner of one golden eye, the equivalent of a massive happy grin pushing along the bond at the sight.

John began to scrub. Dirt that blended into Hyperion’s natural sandy mottled pattern coming away in the water in fine clouds. The water immediately around Hyperion began to turn a slightly dingy color as Hyperion was surrounded by people rubbing him clean. The wrinkles of his wings held onto a surprising amount of dirt and the scrubbing the leathery appendages received revealed an extremely faint gold eyespot pattern across their backs, similar to Bellamy’s butterfly pattern but much less detailed and clear. 

“He’ll look even prettier once he sheds,” commented a nestling nearby, catching John appreciating Hyperion’s new patterning. “Come over here, he’s already started a bit,” she said walking along Hyperion’s spine. John scooted over, following her, and she dove into the water, coming up right at Hyperion’s uninjured hip. Sure enough, right in the crease of his leg there was a sort of a seam where old grey skin was separating and peeling away to reveal shiny new scales. The girl gently pulled at a piece of it and an old bit of scale flaked off in her hand. She handed it to John to see. 

Even wet the old scale was still fairly rigid and John marveled for a moment at what Hyperion’s shed skin actually looked like. He’d never seen a dragon shed, didn’t even really know much about how it was done, but just seeing the clear piece of skin in his hand was fascinating.

“You should see Bellamy after she’s shed,” said a lovely baritone behind him. John turned to see Sherlock standing above him, long toes gripping the scales of Hyperion’s back effortlessly. John nearly dropped the scale in his hands when he registered where his kneeling position put him, at eye level with Sherlock’s tautly clad groin. John quickly looked away, casting his gaze anywhere but those long thighs. His eyes settled on Bellamy in the distance who had also come to rest, simply floating with a handful of nestlings giving her a scrubbing, though she seemed to need it much less than Hyperion did with his whole team of people surrounding him. Sherlock bent over John and picked the shed scale out of his hands, resting long fingers on his shoulder as he did so. John held his breath in the moment of that touch; he just barely felt Sherlock’s thumb rub over the exit point of his scar before the rider straightened with Hyperion’s scale in hand, examining it.

“Er, when does she?” John asked floundering a bit for what else to say other than to ask Sherlock why he’d touched him like that.

“Within the next week,” Sherlock replied. “She is stunning,” he added, making John look up at him. There was a fond smile on his face, a nice genuine one; John loved seeing Sherlock smile, the man didn’t do it nearly enough. Sherlock seemed to notice John staring and rather than continue their chat, dove off Hyperion and took off like a fish to water towards Bellamy.

Just then Hyperion decided to roll over, sending John dunking into the water as well. Any people still on his back joined John, although with more laughing and less surprised sputtering. Hyperion plucked John out of the water like Bellamy had done to Sherlock. Sitting him on his chest, John felt Hyperion’s mental equivalent of a smile cross the bond and John smiled back at him. Hyperion began swimming like that, his wings under the water flexing and propelling him slowly around the pool, content to float upside down for as long as he could. 

“Hyperion, I think we need to get out eventually,” John told him, looking over to see Bellamy stretched out on the rocks already drying.

Hyperion physically lifted his head, staring down at John who ended up in the water again at the dragon’s sudden bodily shift. John swore that if Hyperion could pout he would be, the bond was a small mess of nearly childlike reactions. _A few more minutes,_ John heard. He looked around for any signs that they needed to get out and saw that there were three more dragons near the entrance, sitting waiting to go in.

“I’m sorry, Hyperion, but others need to use the pool too,” John said, rubbing the nearest shoulder he could reach. Hyperion reluctantly rolled back to his belly and dove again, submerging himself entirely and moving towards the deeper end. John could feel the mild petulance across the bond, the dragon trying to prolong getting out. 

John swam to the side and stood up in the tide pools before stepping up onto the bare stone. “Come on, Hyperion,” he mumbled to himself. His request was shortly answered in surprising fashion as Hyperion launched himself onto the edge next to him. Rather than take the easy route and walk out at the shallow end Hyperion had suddenly burst headfirst from the water and planted both forelimbs on the steep stone ledge of the deep end. John could feel Hyperion regretting that decision almost immediately as his injured shoulder nearly gave under the renewed amount of weight Hyperion had just placed on it. He could hear Hyperion’s back claws scrabbling at the stone underwater while he struggled his back half onto dry ground. It was nowhere near as graceful as the move had been originally planned, Hyperion ended up flopped on his side panting a bit with the end of his long tail still dangling in the water. 

John sighed affectionately and patted him on the nose. “You didn’t need to be flashy,” he said. “Now come on, I don’t think they want you laying here to dry, don’t hurt yourself, that’s it, let’s go lay next Bellamy, huh?” John coaxed Hyperion into getting up and the poor waterlogged thing hobbled up the terraces to a vacant spot next to Bellamy, flopping down, and spreading out on the sun-warmed rock. Hyperion gave one last catlike stretch: forearms forward, toes splayed, wings stretched as far as they could go until John began to feel a keen twinge in his shoulder across the bond, a massive toothy yawn, and then he relaxed, nearly falling asleep right there.

While John was smiling fondly at the sight a towel landed on his head. He struggled with the surprise object for a moment before he managed to get turned around and see Sherlock behind him spreading out a towel of his own on the ground under the raised edge of Bellamy’s wing. John followed suit, laying his towel down against the side of Hyperion’s arm, opting to lay in the sun. He leaned against Hyperion’s warm scales and watched the world go by. 

The next set of dragons dove into the pool and the workers and nestlings, armed with their sponges and brushes, began working on them. From a distance he could see the smaller dragons rolling around in the shallower waters and generally having about as much fun as their larger peers. A couple didn’t seem to be having as much fun, opting to sit just near enough to the water that their carers could dump water on them with buckets. _Guess they don’t all love the water,_ John thought, chuckling at the dumpy little dragon’s visible grumpiness. 

His eyes ended up on Sherlock again, the rider flopped on his back in the shade. Bellamy’s scales nearly sparkled as she dried, silver glimmering like Hyperion’s golden flecks; water gathered in the grooves between her scales and ran off. John saw Sherlock’s belly twitch as water dripped on his middle and he smiled when Sherlock rolled over, shuffling a little further under Bellamy’s wing so as not to get dripped on.

“You’re staring.” John nearly jumped when he heard Sherlock’s comment.

“Bellamy is lovely,” John said. Surely Sherlock couldn’t tell _exactly_ what he’d been looking at.

John looked away and resumed watching the other goings on around the pool. If his eye wandered back over Bellamy and Sherlock again with a small swelling feeling in his chest to see Sherlock and his dragon content and resting, he wouldn’t admit it to himself, _Inappropriate,_ John’s brain whispered.

After the pair of dragons had dried and their riders had changed, John approached Sherlock, shorts in hand.

“Sherlock, erm, thank you, for the shorts I mean,” John said flapping the partially dried garment at him.

“Why? They’re yours,” Sherlock replied, pulling his coat back on, stuffing his own dried shorts into an interior coat pocket.

“No, they’re not, these are yours, you gave them to me remember?” John said raising his eyebrows at Sherlock’s long-suffering sigh.

“You did not own a pair of appropriate swimwear. I wanted to take Bellamy out swimming today. I went out to the Aerie Exchange and bought a pair for you last night, deduced your measurements, they were easy enough.” Sherlock said succinctly, tossing his used towel at the bin for cleaning. 

“But you said they were yours.”

“No, you assumed they were mine. I said they were clean and brand new, honestly, John, keep up,” Sherlock chided lightly. John looked down at the new burgundy shorts in his hands, thumb rubbing over the fabric.

“Oh… Well, thank you then, that was kind of you,” John said, but by the time he’d finished Sherlock had left the room. 

Sherlock had actually taken the time to go out in the middle of the night and buy a piece of clothing for him. And he’d chosen carefully, something in the right size and a nice color instead of just grabbing something off the rack. It struck him as unusually thoughtful. In the couple of weeks he’d known Sherlock, the only other person he could imagine the other rider doing that for might be Mrs Hudson, and it surprised John more than a little to have Sherlock being so kind to _him_. 

Hyperion was leaning on Bellamy a little when they walked back towards their pits. By the time they reached the landing field Hyperion needed to actually sit down. The workers in the area okayed Hyperion to sit on the edge of the field for a moment. Bellamy sat next to him, seeming completely contented by the fact that she got to sit out longer. Sherlock stayed quiet and sat on one of her paws while they waited for Hyperion to recover a bit.

The calm moment of Aerie traffic viewing was shattered when a great black dragon darted past the walls above them, its shadow on the ground the only warning of its presence. In that moment, looking up at the silent, pitch-black shape moving through a clear blue sky, John was transported back to the nights when his friends would share stories about other units being decimated by a black nightmare dropping out of the sky and quietly slaughtering everyone. An irrational part of John’s mind told him that this was a thing to hide from, even though it was broad daylight, even though he was inside the Aerie with Hyperion right behind him, John still felt like he needed to duck for cover, run from this thing and pray it didn’t kill him. John stared wide-eyed like a mouse struck dumb by a circling hawk, holding still and hoping it didn’t see him.

“John?” John was drawn back into himself sharply by Sherlock’s voice and the rider’s hand on his shoulder. John gasped and the first thing he noticed was that he was shaking. He turned quickly, ignoring Sherlock’s second call, and Hyperion was there ready for him, instantly picking up something wrong on the bond. John didn’t run to Hyperion’s chest though, he went for his talon, crawling under Hyperion’s finger-like claws and wedging himself in against the tougher pads of his palm.

“John, it's just a stealth rider,” Sherlock said calmly from between Hyperion’s curled claws, Hyperion had brought both talons together and formed a warm sort of cave around John.

“I know what it is, Sherlock,” John replied after a deep breath. “I was in the Army, remember?”

“Ah,” John heard Sherlock say, realization in his tone. “Part of a unit that was attacked?” Sherlock asked.

“No, but heard plenty of stories, saw the old evidence now and again,” John replied, taking calming breaths. Hyperion was swamping the bond with calm feelings, trying to drown out the fear with his presence, and though the sheer concentration of it made John’s temples throb slightly, it was working.

“Well he’s landed now, come on John.” John looked up to see Sherlock pulling at Hyperion’s claw a bit. John took one more deep breath and figured he would need to get up eventually, they couldn’t sit on the edge of the field forever. John just hoped that none of the crew saw the embarrassing spectacle of him cowering under Hyperion’s paw.

Hyperion carefully opened his claws and John stood, still a little shaky but better. He grabbed his cane and hobbled towards Sherlock. “Come on Hyperion, need to get you home,” John said, looking back up at the dragon who bowed his head and gave John a gentle prod with his nose.

Sherlock pulled John forward, heading right towards the black dragon that made John cower moments before. “Sherlock, I don’t need to meet it,” John protested, making an attempt to pull his wrist from Sherlock’s grasp.

“Yes you do,” he replied, forging onward.

Objectively it was beautiful, still a little terrifying, but pretty. It sat as crew members pulled its harness off, black leather on sleek pitch black scales. The sun caught in the blackness and made the dragon look like a living oil slick, iridescent rainbow sheen contouring its body. Its eyes were actually shaded by a sort of visor hooked into its horns, and when the ground crew removed it John saw why. Its eyes appeared pure black for a split second before the light hit and they contracted to show bright orange, pupils contracting to jagged slits. 

Sherlock led him right up to the massive dragon, a little bigger than Hyperion with a build more like Bellamy’s slim form. “John this is a Bhayānaka.” The foreign name rolled off of Sherlock’s tongue easily as the one he’d mentioned the day before. “Literally a Terrifying Ridgeback. It was crossbred during the British occupation of India, a Lesser Ridgeback like Hyperion and an Indian Night Thorn. Truly a unique breed,” Sherlock explained as John looked up at the thing. Terrifying was right, the eyes alone in the daylight were rather scary. A closer look showed the small protrusions that lined its neck and tail, small hooked points that looked like rose thorns protruding from between the scales. The crown of its head carried horns like Hyperion’s only in a much neater arrangement and slightly curved down, giving them a bit of an appearance like slicked back hair, the ones nearest its earholes almost curling like ram’s horns.

“His name is Shaw,” a man said nearby, “And I’m Sebastian Moran, pleased to meet you,” He added offering a hand to John.

It took John a second to realize he was the one being addressed, still looking up at the dragon above him. He looked to Moran, a tall, lanky, very dark-skinned man with a wicked-looking scar running up his cheek and through his eyebrow up to his hairline. His black hair was braided and tied back into a curly fluff at the back of his head. John shook his hand. 

Moran didn’t look particularly pleased to see John, and for a moment John took it personally. Then he noticed the way Moran stared at Sherlock, his light blue gaze focused like a laser on him. Moran seemed a perfect fit for his dragon, right down to the startlingly colored eyes. Something about the color creeped John out, in both dragon and rider.

“Moran and Shaw,” John said, looking back up to the dragon, who stood and shook himself a bit now that the last pieces of his harness were removed. Moran looked up at Hyperion, who had caught up behind them along with Bellamy.

“Apologies if I do not remember his name, I’ve been out on assignment in New Delhi for the last few months. You start to get names crossed going between big Aeries.”

“Oh er, Hyperion,” John said, looking up at Hyperion who was nearly eye-level with Shaw’s head. 

“Sebby!” cried a familiar Irish voice at a volume John had never heard it use before. Jim was on Moran in the blink of an eye and had him in a hug that squeezed the breath out of him with a grunt. 

John stared wide-eyed as Jim detached himself from the tall rider, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, and pulled Moran into a kiss. Pale hands latched onto Moran’s face and neck while Moran’s arms caught up to the situation and wound around Jim, lifting the smaller man up a little more into the kiss.

John’s eyebrows were meeting his hairline as he looked to Sherlock for some kind of answer. Sherlock just rolled his eyes and shrugged. The pair separated from their deep kiss with a shared chuckle, Moran pressing his forehead to Jim’s with the first smile John had seen from him. They shared a murmured conversation, Jim interrupting with small pecks, and began to wander away, Moran’s arm still slung around Jim’s shoulders. Jim pecked another kiss into Moran’s bare shoulder, glancing back at Sherlock and John still standing in the middle of the landing field. Shaw followed quietly behind them.

“What on earth was that?” John asked once the pair were far enough away.

“A very passionate embrace shared by a pair of lovers who were separated by roughly six thousand miles for half a year,” Sherlock said, looking at the sky briefly and continuing their walk across the field, getting out of the way of traffic.

“That’s not what I meant. Jim has a partner?” John was still mildly shocked by the indeed particularly passionate reunion. Nothing about Jim as he’d known him so far hinted that the man had any sort of relationships, let alone such a physical one.

“Yes, is that really so surprising?” 

“Well, frankly yes, Jim is, well, he’s Jim it just seems so…” John couldn’t think of a word to describe how strange that interaction had seemed.

“Freakish?” Sherlock supplied, looking at John out of the corner of his eye. John felt a bit like he was being silently judged for something he hadn’t said.

“No. No, not that, just… odd, different.” John said hoping that was a little better. Sherlock just continued walking almost to the edge of the field. “Thank you, for earlier, talking me down and all.” John said to break the quiet.

“It was a necessity. He lives here, there are others here as well, and you will see them training eventually. Can’t have you running and hiding at the sight of one in the sky all the time,” Sherlock replied, looking back at John over his shoulder with a small smirk tugging at the side of his mouth.

John returned the smile. For all of Sherlock’s rudeness and peculiarities he seemed to like John to at least some degree and that was good enough for John for now.

Later that night, after a shared diner at the cafeteria and a quick check on a soundly sleeping Hyperion, John looked at the swim shorts Sherlock had bought for him before tossing them into the laundry. _Well he likes me enough to buy clothes for me if I need them,_ he thought, getting into bed. That night he had pleasant dreams, consisting mostly of swimming with Sherlock and a lot of underwater snogging. If Sherlock had a few silver scales here and there John’s subconscious paid it no mind.


	10. Getting to Know You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to Nautilicious for betaing this chapter for me.

“Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes!” John looked up from his lunch at the approaching nestling sprinting as fast as possible through the crowded chairs and tables of the cafeteria. The young boy reached for Sherlock’s arm, tugging on his coat sleeve, a bit winded but none the worse for wear. “Mr. Holmes!” 

“Yes?” Sherlock turned with a raised eyebrow.

“Master Lestrade said he needs you, says it’s urgent,” he said. Sherlock sniffed and started to turn back to the sandwich John had picked for him. “He said I need to bring you now, drag you there if I have to, I know you’re a rider but Master’s orders,” the boy’s fingers clamped onto Sherlock’s coat cuff, already starting to pull the attached arm with him before Sherlock could stand up.

“Sounds important, Sherlock,” John said, getting up as Sherlock was nearly dragged from his chair by the boy pulling at his coat.

“Fine, fine, lead the way,” Sherlock groused, shaking the boy’s hand off, straightening his coat and following the nestling from the cafeteria at a brisk pace.

John brought up the rear, thankful to be having a good leg day, Hyperion healing well after a successful shed. An odd couple of days, Molly had assured him that it wouldn’t normally take days but with Hyperion’s limited movement he’d needed a little more help peeling away the old skin. Hyperion had been ambling around a bit easier afterwards though, the scabbed areas of his wounds looking a smidge less severe with fresh granulated scarring around the edges. The more he healed the easier John found it to walk, bad days were still there, but the good were beginning to outnumber the terrible crippling ones. 

John noticed Jim staring after them, the poor ex-rider had gone missing for nearly a week after Sherlock’s classroom interruption and two weeks on he still hadn’t returned as a teacher. But since Moran’s arrival and their somewhat odd reunion, John had spotted the pair in the cafeteria together, which was strange in its own right considering John had never really seen Jim without a flock of nestlings nearby. 

Today however Jim and Moran had come to sit at the table right next to theirs and nearly anytime Sherlock moved it seemed like Jim glanced over at them. Since Moran’s return Jim appeared a little more cleaned up, his hair kept neat and slicked back, the bags under his eyes a little less prominent, but even so John still found him a little on the side of creepy for reasons he couldn’t entirely explain. The gaze that followed them out of the room did nothing to keep the hairs on the back of his neck from prickling. 

The boy led them out across the landing field, towards the training grounds, through the now familiar halls of the school to the library. John wondered what on earth Lestrade could need them for there, but kept quiet as they entered the warm building and passed Jessamy and Garet with their dragons at the front desk. The pair watched with matching worried frowns as Sherlock and John nearly jogged past after the boy, heading for one of the study rooms nearby.

Lestrade was pacing when they entered, looking like he’d been raking his hand through his hair nervously as he held a phone to his ear.

“Hang on, he’s coming, just stay calm,” Lestrade was saying into the phone. The boy rushed to him.

“Sir, I brought Mr Holmes for you,” he said, pulling on Lestrade’s sleeve to get his attention. Lestrade’s gaze went right to Sherlock and John could see an almost desperate slightly panicked look in his eyes.

“Good lad, you go wait outside, now,” Lestrade said. Once the nestling had left Sherlock approached, but Lestrade stopped him, setting the phone down on the table in between them and switching the speaker on. The sound of sniffling drifted up from the mobile. "Okay, could you repeat what you told me? Are you allowed?” Lestrade asked carefully. There was a long pause from the phone filled with the same sniffling. John recognized that sound as someone trying not to cry, someone who wants to wipe their face but can’t, it was almost never a good thing to hear and it sent a small fearful shiver up his spine at what he was about to hear come from the speaker.

“Y-y-yes,” came a very shaky answer, that broke the silence. “I-I don’t know where I am. I c-can’t move. Oh God, I need Sherlock Holmes, help me!” The woman’s voice on the other end devolved into panicked sobbing before she could say any more. The crying didn’t last long though, John heard her suddenly inhale, trying to hold it in, and then she spoke again "St-stop… Stop crying, read the w-words you-you st-stupid cow.” 

“what?” John asked, thoroughly worried by now.

“Shh,” Lestrade hissed quickly. 

Sherlock had been staring hard at the phone the entire time. “What do you mean?” He asked quietly, barely blinking as his gaze bored into the non-descript black smartphone reading ‘unknown’ across the caller ID.

“There’s a- there’s a screen. And this b-bitch is reading what I type, got-gottle o’gear gottle o’gear,” The woman paused again with a teary gasp, but Sherlock charged ahead.

“What do you want?” he asked diving right to the heart of the matter. Both John and Lestrade looked to each other, silently confirming that yes indeed they were dealing with some manner of hostage situation.

“Your attention,” the lady sniffled "pay attention to me and-and my puzzles s-sexy Mr. Sherlock Ho-Holmes. I want to play with you.”

“And if I don’t want to play?” Sherlock asked coldly, John looked sharply up at him. After a couple months with Sherlock John knew there was no keeping Sherlock away from an interesting puzzle or case. 

John had watched Sherlock have a client, on more than one occasion, physically driven out to the Aerie to meet with him in a nearly closet-sized vacant guard booth at the taxi docks, technically still inside the limits of the Aerie’s walls and therefore not breaking his grounding rules. John had actually started keeping a little bit of a journal about the cases Sherlock brought him along to, some sounded genuinely interesting, but the recountings could also come in handy if John needed to get Lestrade involved. No, Sherlock’s brain craved a good case to the point of neglecting everything else, including food. Only Bellamy seemed to be able to truly break his focus and demand his attention if need be. John was the new addition who managed to get him onto at least a more regular eating schedule and keep him from filling Mrs Hudson’s flat with noxious fumes.

“Boom... Boom,” she gasped in terror, realizing at the same time as the rest of the room what that meant.

“Sherlock you have to-” John started, Sherlock abruptly picked up the phone.

“What do you want?” Sherlock snapped again, holding the screen up closer to his face.

“At-attention, s-sexy.” The phone cut out suddenly, and all that was left was the stillness of the library.

“Sherlock, what was that about?” Lestrade asked after a moment in which Sherlock continued to stare at the phone with a face John could only describe as a mix of confusion and interest.

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond when the mobile in his hand let out a shrill alert tone and buzzed in his palm. His lips formed a thin line of concentration as he looked back down at the screen where an image had appeared, a second buzz brought with it a short text. John moved closer to Sherlock, shoulder to shoulder with him as he looked down to see what had Sherlock so entranced.

The picture was of a room with a few stalls and empty clothes hooks and cubbies on the wall. The lighting was dim through thin slotted windows high on one wall, but it was enough to reveal plain grey stone walls and floors, honestly it was as nondescript as any of the public bathrooms or changing stalls in the Aerie to John. The following text read "Tick tock, 10hrs.”

“I know that place,” Sherlock said straight away, turning and nearly bumping into John as he went to dramatically sweep from the room, phone still in hand.

“Sherlock. Sherlock! Get back here.” Lestrade called, rounding the table to head Sherlock off before he could reach the door "What the hell is all this about! You’re not going anywhere until I get some answers.” Lestrade commanded, brooking no argument and looking like he was ready to physically body block the door to keep Sherlock from leaving.

“A mystery wrapped up in a hostage situation, with a puppetmaster,” Sherlock said, stopping.

“Who seems to know you.” Lestrade added looking concerned. John knew he wasn’t too keen about the fact that Sherlock had his online following of ‘fans’.

“Know about me, yes.”

“And what is this on the phone?” Lestrade asked. 

“It is a changing room.”

“Don’t get smart with me, I can tell that much, but you say you know which one it is.”

“I do,” Sherlock replied shortly.

“Sherlock, we need to get the police, someone to check this out ahead of time, what if it’s booby trapped?” John asked from beside him. Sherlock looked up as if he hadn’t expected John to actually follow him.

“I doubt it is, this person wants to watch me solve puzzles; I highly doubt they would want to kill me at the start.” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes as though that should have been obvious.

“I don’t care, Sherlock, I want to get the police in on this, if this guy’s really got explosives involved here I’d rather not have you and a chunk of my Aerie blown to kingdom come,” Lestrade said locking eyes with Sherlock in a glare. He would be getting his way about this both because of his rank as the Master above him and because he could make Sherlock’s life more miserable if he really wanted to.

Sherlock’s eyes darted between John and Lestrade’s faces, Lestrade’s stern and unmoving, John’s concerned. To John’s surprise Sherlock sighed, and with a dramatic eye roll he said, “fine, call them and have them meet me there.” Sherlock began to move past Lestrade.

“And there would be?” Lestrade asked impatiently, grabbing Sherlock’s shoulder as he passed.

“The changing rooms at the hatching grounds, second sand pit on the right.” Sherlock replied, shrugging off Lestrade’s hand and glancing over at John with a look that asked if he was coming along. John could see a sort of fire in Sherlock’s eyes, this was something much bigger than just a hostage case. Before John could say anything though Sherlock was gone, finally successfully sweeping from the room.

John looked to Lestrade when he heard the Master huff out a sigh, “You might as well go after him, god knows maybe you can keep him from running around and getting himself killed,” Lestrade said tiredly.

“If you don’t mind me asking, where did that phone come from?” John asked. Lestrade looked at him, as if he were surprised for John to ask him anything. _Probably expected me just to go after Sherlock,_ John thought

“Jessamy found it slotted between a couple books on her cart last night while she was putting the books away. She told me she thought nothing of it, just put it in the lost and found, then it started ringing this morning and that woman was on the other end crying and begging for a Master to help her. I happened to be the closest one.” Lestrade scrubbed a hand across his face. “The other Masters have already been notified about the situation. I need to update Mycroft about the fabulous news of a bomb threat. I hate it when these happen.”

“This has happened before?” John asked, startled. He knew that explosives had been intercepted in the post and defused successfully, but the idea of hostage situations happening with any amount of frequency made John pale to think about. 

“No, no, we’ve never had anything like this before. Just your run of the mill bomb threats.” Lestrade replied, rubbing his temple tiredly, “We have to treat the possibility of explosives as a real threat on the Aerie. Traffic stops, nothing in or out, that kind of thing. This woman could be anywhere, packed into a shipping container rigged to explode midair or wherever they land France, the US, China, we have people flying out all over the world. We just don’t know. And the fact that Sherlock’s a loose cannon in this situation makes it even more difficult.” Lestrade pulled out his mobile. 

John was at a loss for what to say to that. Yes, Sherlock was a bit of a wild card, but considering whoever was behind this had asked specifically for him there wasn’t much else to be done besides let Sherlock have at it, have the police standing as backup, and hope for the best.

“Just, if you have to follow him, keep him from blowing himself up?” Lestrade requested, looking at John as he put the phone to his ear.

“I already do that at home,” John chuckled, trying to lighten both of their spirits and moving towards the door. He stopped and looked back. “Sherlock, he’ll solve it though, figure this whole mess out.” 

Lestrade already had someone on the other end of the phone but he offered John a smile and a thumbs up. John left the Master to his calls.

Of course Sherlock hadn’t stopped or waited for John to catch up to him, but John was used to that by now. Sherlock would walk off heading somewhere and only hours later when he returned to the flat to find John still in his chair would he realize John hadn’t followed him. “Where were you?” he’d demand. The last time it’d happened John had replied, “Studying. Out talking to yourself again I take it?” Sherlock had huffed and marched back to his bedroom grumbling about John not needing to study and how he should have come anyway. John was almost certain Sherlock hadn’t meant for him to hear that last bit, he’d slowly been piecing together little bits of information to form his own small deduction that Sherlock actually enjoyed and wanted John’s presence. Not nearly as much of a ‘burden to be saddled with’ as Sherlock let on months before.

This time John caught up to Sherlock on the landing field. The entire Aerie was in a frenzy, all divisions following lockdown procedures. Dragons on the ground were led back to the edges of the field and stripped of their harnesses and gear. Anyone preparing to leave or who had just taken flight were instantly herded back to the ground by the combined efforts of the radio tower’s instructions and the guardians that occupied the tops of the Aerie’s walls. John had so far rarely seen them, but he now saw small swarms of little dragons leaving their keepers to collect around the larger dragon’s heads and lead or pester them back down.

Sherlock was amongst it all, walking quickly down the field towards the veterinary wing and the nesting grounds within. John followed him at a distance, keeping an eye on the black fluff of hair and long coat, trying to avoid being stepped on by the dragons being brought to the sides and unharnessed. Sherlock dodged the busy teams and large paws easily.

Meanwhile in John’s mind he could feel Hyperion growing restless: the dragon, still resting and warm in his pit, knew that something was going on. An alert had gone up all over the Aerie and he was instantly worried for John. _I’m okay it’s alright,_ John told him, sending soothing thoughts to the dragon whose mind was aflutter with pangs of upset and panic. _An alert,_ Hyperion’s end of the bond rang, _not good, not fine_. John continued to send calm thoughts to Hyperion, he was in no danger, he was just following Sherlock. John felt a bubble of unease at that, Sherlock wasn’t Hyperion’s definition of safe apparently, but the bubble popped allowing some small amount of relief to trickle out across the bond as John assured him a few more times that he would be okay, that nothing bad would happen to him.

They passed through into the nesting and hatching grounds, past workers tending to eggs and securing doorways. Compared to the rest of the Aerie it was oddly quiet. John had never come into this area before though he’d seen down the halls from a distance; there was simply no reason to explore there and there hadn’t yet been a hatching ceremony to attend. Sherlock turned into one of the doors along the long hallway and was abruptly stopped when the smaller access door did not give way under his palm. John finally caught up to him as he started knocking. No one answered.

He did look surprised when John appeared at his side. _Did he honestly think I wasn’t going to run after him on this one?_ John thought, looking from Sherlock up at the large door that looked like it belonged to a pit like Hyperion’s. 

“Well, Greg did say he wanted the police in on this.” John said, even as Sherlock recovered himself and the surprise melted from his face. 

“Look out then, will you? The sooner I can get in the better,” Sherlock replied, making a small shooing motion at John with his hand. John believed him for about a second, long enough to begin to turn back towards the hallway before he heard the tiny clink behind him. He spun back to Sherlock to see the mad rider kneeling next to the access door with a fold-away tool kit laid out next to him.

“Sherlock!” John hissed. “We can’t pick the locks.” John tried not to yell in the quiet space, best not to announce to the world that Sherlock was lockpicking his way into a place he definitely shouldn’t be without supervision.

“Too late,” Sherlock chimed happily, as the lock clicked and the door swung open for him. “They haven’t changed the locks on these doors in years.”

John let out an exasperated groan. “Sherlock,” he grumbled even as he followed. The area beyond was much bigger than the average dragon pit: wall-to-wall sand covered the floor with a small walkway of stone around the edge. Stepping beyond the door felt like stepping into a whole new environment, from the cold weather outside to an almost desert-like warmth and dryness inside. The ceiling was completely covered in white canvas, no holes at the edges for any heat to escape or rain to get in. The entire space was surrounded by a long, continuous balcony of gallery seating. Sherlock walked around the edge underneath to a door in the wall.

“Sherlock, I don’t think we should be in here,” John called after him, looking out at the sand that, for all he knew, might contain eggs.

“It’s empty, John,” Sherlock said. “The only reason it was even locked was because it is not currently in use.” John could almost hear the eye-roll in his voice.

Sherlock pulled a small torch from the inside of his coat and barely cracked the door open, shining it inside. John saw an eyebrow lift and the light went back to the coat pocket as Sherlock pushed the door the rest of the way open. He flipped a switch inside and revealed the changing room from the picture in the text message. The picture hadn’t shown the white-tiled showers at the other end of the long room. Everything looked extraordinarily clean in the light, all whitewashed walls and white-painted wood or tile, but a spot of color instantly drew the eye. Sitting in the middle of the shower floor was a single dingy blue trainer. And of course Sherlock walked right up to it.

“Sherlock,” John called in warning, as Sherlock looked down at the lone shoe and crouched down next to it, “remember, bombs involved, police are supposed to be here.” He kept his distance near the door, glancing out at the sand nervously, expecting for a police officer to come around the corner any moment. The warning did nothing to stop Sherlock from hovering around the shoe curiously, thankfully not touching it, but still getting as close as possible to it with his face and his pocket magnifier. Overall giving the shoe infinitely more attention than a single shoe probably had ever gotten outside of its maker’s hands.

John however did hear a shifting motion outside and looked back out at the open doorway to see a mound appearing out of the sand. Mossy colored scales slithered out, sand pouring off of spines like water, and John’s eyes widened at the large occupant they had disturbed. 

“Sherlock, er, Sherlock!” John stammered, shuffling away from the door and towards the crouching detective.

“John, much as I enjoy hearing my name on your lips throughout the day, would you kindly shut up at this moment?” Sherlock replied with a huff, looking up from his curious inspection of the shoe.

“Sherlock! The pit’s not empty!” John pointed out the door. Without even getting up Sherlock’s attention seemed to perk towards the sound of shifting sand outside.

“Ah,” was his only remark on the fact that they’d broken into a nesting dragon’s area. John had read a little about how nesting worked out of sheer curiosity, considering having a male dragon meant he’d probably not have to deal with that side of the Aerie in the near future. There was a reason that only particular Aerie workers worked with eggs: depending on the dragon species it could be a dangerous thing bothering a broody mother dragon.

Sherlock startled John by striding past him, having quietly gotten up from the shoe to have a look at the disturbance. He took one look outside and turned back to John. “It’s just an Egyptian Šawk, Prickleback.” John definitely agreed with the naming as the dragon’s head slowly lifted and turned towards them, her face was a riot of spiny scales, long, flat, pointed scales flattened back to the contours of her head and seemed to almost flex with her breathing. Her green coloring almost gave her the look of a moving plant until her eyes opened and a third eyelid tucked away to reveal bright red and a thin black pupil looking around sleepily for the noise in her nest.

“You knew she was here?” John whispered frantically, looking at the spike-covered tail that had come uncovered circling around a trio of large eggs.

“No,” Sherlock replied defensively, “I thought it was a little warmer in here though, it’s always something--”

“Sherlock Holmes!” Shouted a rather angry sounding woman in a tone that both made John want nothing to do with the situation currently and made him curious exactly how it was about to play out. 

“Sherlock bloody Holmes what the hell do you think you’re doing?” The voice came closer and sounded a little more familiar. Sally.

John glanced to Sherlock for a cue whether they should step out of the room to meet these women or if they should wait for them. Sherlock simply looked put upon by the whole situation. The lovely spark in his eye, the curiosity and interest he’d had when they’d happened upon the shoe had certainly faded and his face had gone back to its usual mask of boredom and exasperation with the rest of humanity.

John could see a woman with long grey hair marching out across the sands towards the dragon with her arms up, reaching for the long prickly face in a comforting gesture. Meanwhile Sally rounded the corner and was suddenly blocking all view of the pair, a furious look on her face as she zeroed in on Sherlock. He did not back away in the slightest.

“Investigating a case,” Sherlock said coolly, nodding towards the shoe. Sally didn’t even give the discarded article a glance.

“You were clearly instructed by Lestrade to wait for the police,” she told him, pointing back out the doorway as though Lestrade were there to give Sherlock a reprimand as well. “I do not care what freakish deductive powers you were exercising! You should have waited to be escorted into this pit by a den mother and police!”

“You’re lucky she’s a docile mother,” said a quiet voice behind Sally. The long-haired woman had finished resettling the dragon in her pit. John could see her slowly shifting her body in an undulating pattern to sink below the sand again, this time leaving the very top of her head exposed and a lump where the eggs were buried.

Sherlock seemed perfectly fine with ignoring the woman’s admonishment, but John couldn’t ignore it. “We’re sorry ma’am, we didn’t know this area was occupied. Sherlock and I had no intention to disturb, er, her.” John told her tactfully. He gave Sherlock a pointed look and nod in the woman’s direction, hoping to prompt him to apologize as well.

“Sarai, her name is Sarai, you’ll be seeing her hatchlings shortly after the first of the year. I am Josie and I know all about you, young war doctor just came in with Hyperion, you’re still learning. Him though,” she shrugged at Sherlock, “He’s got a past breaking in over here. I expect an apology from you, young man!” She raised her voice at Sherlock, making the rider finally look at her. “Both to me and one for Sarai as you leave,” Josie finished with a very motherly huff.

“Apologies dearest den mother Josie,” Sherlock said with a sigh, as though he were a small boy being forced to say sorry for breaking a window. John watched her purse her lips as though she were about to tell Sherlock off some more before she also sighed.

“That’s about the best I’m going to get out of you, I expect. Say hello to Bellamy for me, I’d like to see the dear sometime soon,” she said with a small smile. “Anyway, carry on with what you were doing, and stop disturbing my charge.” Josie waved a dismissive hand towards Sally and the shoe before turning and going back out into the sand.

“Thank you Josie,” Sally said kindly, the rage from before seeming to have cooled during the brief interruption. “If you would please let the police inside, we will try to be out of your nest quickly.” 

Soon there were a handful of police swarming into the changing room, including Lestrade’s very own Dimmock. Sally continued to glare at Sherlock, especially when he demanded to take the shoe with him to a lab to run some tests. The demand was met with protests from both Sally and Dimmock. Undoubtedly the DI didn’t want to let Sherlock go with important evidence and Sally didn’t want to let Sherlock leave without being berated within an inch of his life for yet again breaking the rules and possibly endangering John. John simply stayed out of the way, leaning against the far wall next to the door, now and then looking out at the subtly breathing mound of sand. 

“This is my case!” Sherlock spat at the pair keeping him from leaving with the shoe once it was found that there was nothing to find but the shoe in the room. John could see that Sherlock was getting frustrated to the point of getting himself in even more trouble, the point where he started spitting every horrific thing he could deduce off of people just because it was the only thing he could do that might get them to let him have his way, if anything to get him to stop talking. Only these were his superiors, or at least one was his superior the other was the husband of his superior and an officer of the law.

John finally stepped in to save Sherlock from himself. “Sally, he has to look at that shoe closer, the person who called in the bomb threat specifically asked for him to solve it,” he said calmly, immediately breaking through a little of the tension between the trio just by talking. 

“And what lab do you suggest he take it to, surely not the cesspool of a kitchen he uses as a laboratory,” Dimmock snapped.

“I was thinking only a little ways away in one of Molly’s labs, in this same veterinary wing, or we could take it a little farther to the human medical facilities, all while never leaving the Aerie like he’s supposed to,” John replied calmly, drawing himself up and taking the evidence bag holding the disputed trainer from Dimmock.

Sally gave a grudging sigh next to him, rubbing the space between her eyes as though she had a headache. “I don’t like that he’s right, but he’s right, Dimmock, we don’t really have time for official rules and regulations right now, we’re on a time limit. If he needs to run some tests, let him run the tests, we’ll figure out the paperwork after we find the woman and whatever bomb there might be,” she said, looking at John.

Dimmock huffed. “Fine, but the shoe is not leaving the lab and when you’re done with it it goes with me as evidence.”

“Fine,” John said before Sherlock had time to open his mouth and say anything else possibly inflammatory. “Come on, Sherlock,” John said, like the rider had done to him so many times over the past months, and walked out the door. 

Sherlock didn’t hesitate and followed, quickly taking the lead from John as they walked towards the exit. John stopped in front of the open smaller door though, blocking Sherlock’s path.

“Apologize,” he said, nodding at the dragon whose only visible part was the top of her head and her eyes. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes but did turn around and face her. “I am sorry, Sarai, for intruding on your nest,” Sherlock said to her, no embellishments or yelling to be heard, if anything to John it actually sounded like a sincere apology. “Take care of your eggs so that we have some more healthy Šawk hatchlings in the new year,” Sherlock added before turning back to John. He raised his eyebrows in an expression that read ‘satisfied?’ John smiled and presented Sherlock with the evidence bag, pushing it into his hands.

“There, now let’s go,” he said stepping out of Sherlock’s way and letting him pass. For a brief second Sherlock looked a smidge surprised by John letting him have the bag, then the mask came back with a sniff and Sherlock walked by.

As they proceeded on their way to the veterinary labs though John definitely heard a quiet, “Thank you,” from the tall rider ahead of him.

“So, the kidnapper left you a shoe,” John finally stated while sitting next to Sherlock in the deserted lab. They’d been quiet for the most part since arriving while Sherlock ran his tests and put bits of the trainer under a microscope and studied the thing within an inch of its life. “Not much to go on, is it?”

Sherlock looked up at him, broken from his studying by John’s attempt at conversation. He pushed the shoe in front of John. “Tell me what you see,” he said, gesturing at the shoe with the utensil in his hand. John looked at him like he’d lost his mind, Sherlock’s was the deductive brain in the room, not his.

“You just spent the last hour staring at it, what--” John started scooting the shoe back.

“Outsider’s opinion, I want you to tell me what you see,” Sherlock urged. John sighed, The look in Sherlock’s light eyes seemed sincere, he really did want John to examine this thing for him.

“Well, looks like your average trainer,” John started, glancing at Sherlock, waiting for the snide remark to come, “but, they’re older, I don’t think I’ve seen this look in a long time, so a retro style, mid-80’s maybe? Had to have belonged to a kid cause there’s a name in it, Carl.”

“Carl,” Sherlock repeated, “anything else?” he said pleasantly, raising his eyebrows for John to go on. 

John frowned at the patient look on Sherlock’s face, it almost didn’t feel right after seeing Sherlock be a rude arse so often. But he let his eyes go back to the shoe and something odd struck him.

“It’s spotless, no dirt, or mud, or blood, it’s like it's been kept in a sealed case. It’s not mint condition new, some kid’s worn it at some point, but otherwise it’s clean,” John said, looking closely at it now for anything else off about the item in his hands, only to have it suddenly plucked away from him by Sherlock.

“Very good, John,” he said happily. “Any thoughts on why it is so clean?” 

“The kidnapper bought a new pair of shoes and scuffed them up to look worn but got sloppy?” John replied, telling Sherlock the first thought in his head with a shrug.

“No, a fine guess, but absolutely no,” Sherlock said, setting the trainer down on the counter again. “The shoe is clean because the child who wore it kept his shoes clean. Carl lived in the Aerie here, so much stone and not much in the way of dirt beyond the landing field. Even if they did get dirty he would clean them spotless again, you can see small scuffs and residue from the cleaning, and from where he would remove the laces and then re-lace the shoe over and over. It's not made to look worn, it is worn because it was worn.” 

“So where’s this Carl kid then? Maybe we could ask him?” John asked.

“Dead I’m afraid.” John gave him a sharp look at that. “You weren’t wrong about the year though, Nike Reflex Blue and Silver 1986. They aren’t ‘retro,’ they really are that old.” Sherlock held up his mobile with a picture pulled up of the navy blue trainers, the big silver logo on its side.

“Okay, Sherlock, I know you think this is fun, but why are we dealing with a dead child’s shoe?” John asked, getting a sick slightly worried feeling in the pit of his stomach the moment Sherlock mentioned death. “And how do you seem to know so much about Carl?”

Sherlock sat back on his stool, staring down at the shoe before him. “Because I knew him. He was my first case, and nobody believed me.” He spoke quietly, bringing his hands together in his familiar thinking pose in front of his thinned lips. “Carl Powers.”

“What?” John remembered Lestrade saying that nobody could forget Sherlock’s first case, but the man just said nobody believes him about this one.

“Why would anyone listen to a nine year-old?”

“Well, you started young, didn’t you?” John said looking over Sherlock, he hadn’t quite pictured him that small when he imagined Sherlock’s intellect making him rattle off deductions and say the rude things that got him in trouble. John’s mental image of that first serious case almost instantly skewed and rather than a tall, skinny, young adult with Bellamy at his side he began picturing a boy with a riot of black fluff for hair, no dragon, and a massive brain, who was rather isolated because nearly everyone around him disliked him.

His heart panged a little at the thought of a very small Sherlock running around trying to tell people things and getting pushed away.

“Carl Powers, thirteen, old enough for a dragon and he got picked. Then four days before the hatching ceremony he was found face down in the sand right next to the egg that would have been his, stone cold dead,” Sherlock said, still gazing at the shoe, his eyes glazed over as though he were staring past the thing into the memory it encapsulated. “There were no signs of foul play, no blood, no nothing, people assumed he’d fallen asleep sitting with his egg and accidentally fallen over in the night, suffocated in the sand. But there was one thing that was off, his shoe, one of his shoes was missing, and it didn’t make sense. I tried to get the Masters, the police, to look into it harder but like I said who would listen to a nine year-old babbling about a missing shoe?” He looked up at John finally, face looking a little younger for a moment.

“I would,” John said, “If you were anywhere near as bright as you are now, I’d probably have listened to you.” He wanted to make that young, slightly lost look go away, the fact that the missing shoe had turned up decades later proved Sherlock right after all, some kind of foul play was at hand. The young look didn’t quite vanish but those bright blue eyes got a little wider and eyebrows rose in mild shock. John watched Sherlock’s mouth move slightly like he wanted to say something but his lips weren’t forming the words.

“‘That’s not what most people would say’, right?” John supplied for him, offering a small smile. He looked down at the shoe. “Well, maybe some people should actually listen to you more often. I think most of the time people have a hard time getting past you being such a dick all the time, might need to work on that a bit.” John chuckled trying to break the odd tension that seemed to have sprung up at the bit of honest admission, eyes going back to Sherlock.

John heard Sherlock huff at that, face going back to its usual state with a bit of a grump. “People are idiots John. If I waited for them to ‘like me’ murderers and serial killers would run amok.” 

“Oh, thanks,” John deadpanned.

“I said people, John, _people_ are idiots.”

“I’m people, Sherlock,” John replied pointing out the obvious.

“No, you are _John_ , you are a rider.” Sherlock supplied the distinction, not looking up at John as he said it. A long moment passed between them as John tried to absorb what that meant. Did it mean Sherlock thought him better than most people? Or maybe favored him? Thought John a friend? The rider didn’t give him too much time to think on it as he sniffed and suddenly stood up from his stool. “Still with the potential to be an idiot though,” he clarified as if he’d just realized that he’d admitted something to John that he hadn’t really meant to leave his mouth.

John huffed out a small chuckle at that, but Sherlock didn’t give him time to comment as the detective picked the shoe up and began looking closely at the laces, particularly at the holes. For a moment John thought it might be Sherlock deflecting the situation, not talking about what was said by suddenly fluttering off on some other thing all together, until he spoke.

“The question isn’t why the shoe was missing, but why this shoe in particular?” Sherlock mumbled looking under the tongue of the shoe. 

“You mean it wasn’t random?” Sherlock’s face broke into a smug grin as he looked to John out of the corner of his eye.“What?”

“There’s evidence on the shoe, look here.” He pulled open the shoe so John could see the inside. There on the tongue was a big dark smear, nearly blended into the dark blue fabric around it.

“Blood?” John guessed, looking to Sherlock with raised brows. Sherlock was already reaching for equipment, trying to get a sample of the old mark. Silence followed for long moments after as Sherlock ran his tests.

“No, jam,” Sherlock replied, long after John had suggested anything, looking up from his microscope.

“Jam? Why jam?” 

“Because he was poisoned,” Sherlock said, as though that were the only logical step to take. 

When John continued to look at him with a questioning eyebrow he launched off into his explanation. “Think about it: the boy has just learned that he is about to receive a dragon, there are celebrations all around, because of course it's a happy occasion. The party dies down and he decides he’s going to go start bonding with his dragon before it’s even hatched, it’s not an uncommon practice. Little does he know he’s being followed, and our killer approaches before Carl enters the nest. Carl knew this person, there wasn’t evidence of a struggle or marks to show that he was dragged or placed in the sand. Instead they offer him food, a cupcake, a doughnut, something with a filling that could be seen as a congratulatory reward, something innocent. Carl happily takes the gift and eats it. His hands become sullied by jam from the filling and he tries to wipe it off, being mostly successful until he realizes his shoe’s come undone, don’t want to lose it in the sand, so he adjusts it, creating this mark. Little does he know the poison is already working through his body, he’s already made it out to the eggs and sat down by the time it starts to affect him. Meanwhile, the killer is watching as Carl is quickly ravaged by the toxin hidden in the food. Carl winds up face down in the sand, only making matters worse and the combination poisoning and suffocation does him in. But the killer’s not done, he saw Carl adjust his shoe, so just in case he takes it, and here we are.”

John could almost watch Sherlock’s eyes glow with excitement and it suddenly clicked why: this was his first case, an unsolved mystery that nobody believed existed to begin with, that only Sherlock knew about it. The thrill of sounding it out and finding he hadn’t just been an obnoxious little boy, Sherlock had been right all along. How good that must have felt to know for certain, to finally have solved it, at least to some degree, all these decades later.

“I need to get this tested further, find out the specific poison used,” Sherlock murmured, gathering up the shoe and putting it back into the evidence bag. He took off towards the door brushing quickly past the rather peeved Dimmock and heading for one of the offices across the hall.

“Sherlock,” Dimmock called crossly, moving to follow him and nearly running into Sherlock along with John as the rider stopped at one door in particular. 

“Mike!” Sherlock called, knocking at the door furiously. He didn’t have to wait long as said man opened the door into his tiny office. 

“What on earth is it, Sherlock, it’s the middle of the day! Shouldn’t you be out at your classes with John or something?” He asked as Cherie came skittering out and around Sherlock’s ankles, the small dragon finally settling for grabbing a trouser cuff in her mouth, tugging till he shook her off.

“I need you to run some tests for me on this shoe, it has poison on it,” 

“This is the fifth time in the last month you’ve asked me to test something for you...” Mike started with a small huff.

“A woman’s life depends on finding out what this is,” Sherlock stated flatly, knowing that playing the victim card would instantly get Mike’s soft heart to do anything for him. John watched Mike’s eyebrows rise.

“Oh, Christ, this is for an actual case this time, why didn’t you say so?” He got up from his desk quickly. Mike scooped up Cherie, who was trying her damndest to ruin Sherlock’s trouser leg, and took the evidence bag.

The whole group returned to the lab Sherlock had been occupying, Sherlock pointing out to Mike what he needed samples of and labs run on and such, John standing nearby watching the proceedings, and Dimmock looking slightly miffed about the fact that another person had been brought in on the case to mess with the evidence. Mike offered a friendly, “Hello John, haven’t seen you in a while,” before Sherlock pulled him back to the task with the shoe. 

In the end samples were taken and Mike began to do as Sherlock asked, if John didn’t know better he’d say Sherlock already knew what the result would be and that he was only doing this, getting Mike involved, out of formality and maybe a slight urge to show off. 

“Sherlock, even if you solve it how do we let this person know?” John asked, the thought coming to him suddenly as he sat next to the other rider. Sherlock sat quietly in his thinking pose, palms pressed together in front of his lips. 

“Simple,” Sherlock said, pulling his hands apart to take out his mobile. "They are a ‘fan’ of mine, where else would they see it but on my personal blog?” John watched as he opened the page to his blog and began typing a new entry: ‘Found: one trainer belonging to Carl Powers (1973-1986)…’ He stopped there leaving the cursor blinking and looked up at where Mike was finishing up his work.

“Sherlock, I don’t know where you’re finding this stuff, but it’s got the same thing in it as that pill you had me analyze for you about a month ago,” Mike said from across the room.

“Shy Death?” John remembered the name of the poison well, he’d even taken some time to read up on them along with a few of the other toxic and corrosive things Sherlock liked experimenting on in the kitchen.

“Shy Death, yeah that’s it, nasty stuff really, what’s it doing in a bit of jam on a trainer though?” Mike asked curiously.

“It was used to murder Carl Powers 24 years ago,” Sherlock said bluntly, typing on his phone finishing the entry ‘traces of Shy Death poison present.’ But he didn’t post it. “John, call Lestrade tell him to have the phone nearby,” Sherlock ordered.

John did as he was told right away, pulling his phone and dialing the Master. The voice who answered sounded haggard and rushed.

“Master Lestrade, what is it?” He asked roughly, there was definitely noise going on in the background.

“Greg, it’s John, Sherlock said to have that mystery phone on hand, I think he thinks we’re about to get another call on it.”

“For the love of god don’t do anything to get the Aerie blown up,” Lestrade replied. 

“He’s solved it, that puzzle the person wanted him to find, he’s got the answer now,” John said seeing Sherlock hit send on his phone beside him. A moment passed where John could only hear the muffled sounds of the Aerie on the other end of the line.

“Well?” Lestrade asked.

“He’s just submitted the answer on his blog,” John said then he heard a shrill ringing on the other end of the line.

“Shit, John, put me on speakerphone, I got that call,” John did so and he heard a slightly distant sounding crying, Lestrade had put the woman on speaker as well so they could all hear.

“Come and get me,” she wailed. “Please, come and get me, the screen says well done you, come and get her.” The woman’s voice devolved into sobs at that point and John heard the difference in Lestrade’s voice when he replied.

“Where are you? We need you to tell us where you are first.” He asked the panicked woman gently.

“I’m in a storage room, it says look behind the butcher's, help me please,” she said.

“It’s okay, we’re coming to get you, just keep talking to me, dear,” Lestrade said soothingly, keeping extremely calm in the face of finding a woman possibly surrounded by explosives. “John, I’ve got to go, I’ll call you back when all this is done,” he said addressing his own mobile directly.

“I understand, go find her,” John replied.

“And tell Sherlock, thank you.” With that he hung up. John looked to Sherlock to see him let out a sniff.

“Child’s play,” Sherlock said, as though he were completely indifferent and bored by the whole case. But John knew he’d seen Sherlock’s eyes light up, saw him hovering around excited energy rolling off of him as he investigated the puzzle. Sherlock wouldn’t admit it but he was happy, John was sure of it.

Lestrade called later, by the time the phone rang Sherlock and John were back at 221b. The woman had been found in a small storage room off of a hallway behind the butcher’s. She had been tied to a chair and was surrounded by explosives, including a vest rigged with semtex. She had been equipped with a headset that completely covered her face, Lestrade had said it was an experimental virtual thing, something that had to have been stolen out of the research and development department.

“There were enough explosives in that one little room to probably flatten the back half of the butcher’s building, I can’t imagine how much food would have gone up, not to mention the people working in there, and nobody even knew she was there,” Lestrade said over the phone as they both listened to the run down.

“Is she okay though?” John asked, looking up at Sherlock who was laid out on the sofa seeming to not pay attention. 

“She’s alright, pretty badly shaken of course, but overall she’s okay. Said the only thing she remembers was being in her flat and someone came up behind her, shoved a cloth over her face, then she woke up with the headset on.” Lestrade sounded more like his normal self by now, simply relieved that the woman was in good health and the whole bomb threat had been taken care of, the Aerie returning to its normal activities and trying to catch up on lost time.

“We’ll have to come visit her,” John suggested, thinking she might like to meet the pair who played a part in her rescue. Sherlock gave a disinterested grunt from the sofa.

“Sure, oh and Sherlock, Dimmock still wants you to fill out the paperwork for him on this whole situation,” he called knowing Sherlock was there with John even though the other rider had so far been for the most part silent. John heard Sherlock give off another grumble.

“We’ll do that,” John said for him. 

The rest was friendly goodbyes and John hung up shortly after. He looked to Sherlock who had been on the sofa the entire time and had simply decided to hop up. 

Neither of them had changed out of the day’s clothes yet but John doubted that would have stopped Sherlock from just grabbing his coat and wondering out. Weeks together had so far shown him that Sherlock’s modesty levels were almost hilariously low. The bit with the barely covering towel in those first days had not been an act exactly, he’d come downstairs a handful of times already to find Sherlock lounging wrapped up in only a bed sheet, or sitting at the kitchen table with a sheet pooling down in his lap and his lean bare back to the door, or sitting in his pyjama bottoms in odd places around the flat. John had watched him throw his coat on over a pair of pants and an undershirt and button it up to walk out of the flat, John only hoped he was only making a quick trip to see Bellamy.

Something about this didn’t feel right though and so he pursued Sherlock out the door, nearly tripping over Angus on the stairs. He felt pulled after the other rider as the long dark coat strode quickly down the walkway and the hall towards Bellamy’s door. 

John hesitated for a moment after he watched Sherlock pass through the door, unsure if he should intrude. He looked over at Hyperion’s door, Hyperion sitting beyond it, calm and resting now that the bomb threat had passed. A soft wave of contentment radiated across the bond as Hyperion sensed John nearby. John pushed back his own thoughts of calm and happiness that all was safe and well again, along with a promise to come see him in a little while. He stepped up to Bellamy’s door then and he pushed anyway, slightly surprised that Sherlock hadn’t locked it behind him.

Inside he saw Bellamy right away, sitting up in her sand pit, all laid out with wings spread like a massive pool of silver scales behind her covering the warm sand and reflecting the light tan color of the canvas covering her pit as the weather cooled into late fall. Her head bowed down to point at John’s target, between her forelegs sat Sherlock coat and all. He was curled up with his knees tucked under his chin and propped against one of Bellamy’s paws, an arm circled one of her claws holding the attached digit close as he leaned. She was gently snuffling his hair, nosing the side of his face and his back as he held on in an almost childlike pose.

John didn’t even say anything to get Sherlock’s attention before the silver eyes flicked up to look at him. "Don’t you know it’s rude not to knock?” Sherlock grumbled at him, still hanging onto Bellamy’s claw.

John huffed a small laugh. "You’re one to talk,” he said coming forward now that Sherlock knew he was there, no reason to stand in the doorway.

“Why are you out here?” John asked, cutting to the chase as he eased himself down to sit at the edge of the sand nearby. Bellamy reached her long neck out to prod at him a little, inspecting John briefly before deciding to curl back in and mother on Sherlock. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow as if to say ‘what sort of a question is that?’ 

“I could ask you the same thing and the question would be far more valid,” Sherlock replied, looking John up and down even as Bellamy rubbed her nose into his back.

“Fine, what’s on your mind then?” John asked with a sigh.

“I come out here quite often to be with Bellamy, I am her rider after all.” Sherlock reached out finally with the arm that had been wrapped around his knees and scratched at a spot under the very front of her chin.

“Well, yeah, but you seemed to be thinking really hard about something, and today was, well, the case and all,” John tripped and stumbled over what he was trying to get to, managing to get the words out.

Sherlock didn’t respond right away, instead seeming to become entranced with Bellamy and giving her chin and nose rubs. John simply waited, quietly watching the pair, watching Sherlock’s face. John could tell he was ‘talking’ to her, he’d been around Sherlock long enough to be able to tell just as Sherlock was able to see when John was talking with Hyperion, not with the same amount of accuracy or the uncanny ability to know what he was talking about but still John was learning.

“I was right,” Sherlock finally said distantly.

“You solved the case, yeah,” John said.

Sherlock’s eyes refocused on John. "No, I merely saved a woman’s life, I didn’t catch her captor,” he said.

John hadn’t really thought about it like that, he’d figured the one puzzle would be it, but of course now that Sherlock mentioned it, with all the work and effort put into just this one puzzle and since they really hadn’t captured the person responsible for the explosives, it could actually happen again. And they would have no idea when or how severe the next puzzle would be, as it was Sherlock had solved this one with two hours remaining on the clock.

“Then what do you-” 

“I was right about Carl, I was right that there was something suspicious, right that he had been murdered, and no one believed me at the time,” Sherlock interrupted lightning quick to cut off John’s question. "Spent a whole year alone and all that time thinking I was wrong,” he added quietly going back to clinging to Bellamy as he turned and hugged onto her nose.

“What’s that mean?” John asked curiously. Sherlock was acting oddly, at least more than normal. The man didn’t do vulnerable, not since the whole talk about the abusive roommates he’d gone through weeks ago. Sherlock stayed aloof and stiff and masked very well, hints of something softer under the armor slipped through when he didn’t think John was watching or when surprised, but otherwise Sherlock was his usual unapproachable, somewhat rude self.

Sherlock sighed and looked to John again, face pressed against Bellamy’s scales. "It was a year later after Carl’s passing that I claimed Bellamy,” he said.

“Oh…” Bellamy meant so much to Sherlock, as someone who seemed fairly lonely as a child she must have been a shining ray in the gloom. "But wait, you said you were nine when Carl died, they don’t give dragons to ten year olds,” John reasoned, suddenly remembering how young Sherlock had been.

“No, they don’t usually, once the bond is there though, there is no severing it, and of course there wouldn’t be anyone murdering the son of a rider with a legacy like mummy’s, didn’t matter if he was a trouble child,” Sherlock’s face sneered at the last part, voice becoming mocking.

Before John could ask his next question Bellamy carefully reached out for him and lifted him from his seat at the edge of the sand. She placed him closer to Sherlock sitting next to him on the pleasantly warm sand. John looked up at her at the sudden handling and her large blue eye stared down at him. Without the bond like he shared with Hyperion John couldn’t read her thoughts but her intelligent eyes that almost matched her rider’s spoke of happiness. An extra movement to push the sand up behind John almost said _get comfortable, he doesn’t tell this story often_.

“Er, thank you,” John offered up at her, "seems like she wants you to share something,” John said to Sherlock nodding at Bellamy. Sherlock glared up at her for a moment before sighing and repositioning himself against her thumb facing John. 

“Fine,” he grumbled, settling into the sand. “I technically stole her. Happy now?” He frowned up at her. She pushed Sherlock with her nose hard enough to topple him over.

“Stole her?” John said, eyebrows raising.

“I was lonely, alright?” Sherlock snapped as he pushed Bellamy’s head away and sat back up, a dusting of sand now sticking up his side. “I was ten and my only friend had just been murdered, and I didn’t want to wait for the Masters to maybe give me a dragon.” Sherlock looked up at Bellamy again, and quietly corrected, “to give me someone who wouldn’t leave.”

A part of John’s heart clenched at the addition. Sherlock had taken Bellamy because he knew a dragon could never and would never leave its bonded rider, no matter what his future held he’d at least have her. “But how?” John asked quietly, almost more to himself than anything, wondering how he’d managed to get her.

“Snuck into a nest that I knew was close to its hatching date,” Sherlock replied, still not looking at John, “I picked an egg at random, I just knew it was a nest of riding dragons, I didn’t care what kind, just one that would be big enough to take me away if I wanted to. The way a hatching ceremony starts is the nest’s den mother taps on the eggs with a soft mallet, stimulates the hatchling inside to move and break the shell and start the hatch properly. I didn’t know the specifics, I’d only seen other hatching ceremonies and knew the people tapped on the eggs. I brought a hammer with me and accidentally cracked her shell. No going back after that.” John watched as Sherlock basically told Bellamy her own origin, as though he were telling her a bedtime story. He could see the softness in Sherlock’s eyes and face as he recounted the memory.

“The den mother, Josie, she said you had a history of breaking into nests.” John said realizing now what the older woman had meant earlier.

“Mmmhmm,” Sherlock hummed his affirmation, “There in the middle of the night Bellamy broke out of her shell. I bolted when I saw the crack I’d caused, didn’t even make it to the door before she popped her head out of the shell and took her first breath right away. You never quite forget that first sound, it’s a little sticky, a little gooey, kinda like a wet hiss; she still makes that sound if she gets sick.” Sherlock said fondly, gross as it sounded John could almost understand, he’d delivered a child or two in his life as a doctor, that first odd sort of wet burbling cry babies made when they’re first born sounded similar.

“Of course I went back to her, no real dragon rider would leave a new hatchling alone,” Sherlock continued. “She quickly broke out of her egg and crawled to me, and I found myself with a lap full of hungry silver dragon, I’d forgotten to bring food with me, of course. She bonded to me anyway. I cried so hard over her that it alerted the den mother I’d snuck past, a much younger Josie.” Sherlock finally looked over at John at that moment with a look that said, ‘yes the same woman you met.’

“I bet that got you into some serious trouble,” John said with a small chuckle, he could almost imagine little Sherlock with a messy lapful of dragon bawling his eyes out in the middle of the night.

“Trouble isn’t a harsh enough word for what I was in. I was so blinded by my loneliness and my wish for a friend, I actually stole a dragon. That egg I broke was meant to go to another, older, more experienced, nestling. Josie was only the beginning. At least she showed some compassion, after the shock of finding us, she helped me clean her, ran to get some food for her. I was a stupid child, letting my heart run away, not using my head, caring too much,” Bellamy nudged at him again, gently with a small warm huff. “Of course the Masters found out, the whole Aerie found out. The nosy, annoying, Holmes child stole a dragon, Christ you’d have thought the Aerie walls were about to crumble around their ears, the sky would fall soon.” Sherlock laughed hollowly, putting a palm on Bellamy’s nose.

“What’d they do?” John asked enthralled and genuinely curious. Sherlock was like him, he’d done something the Aerie hadn’t seen happen before, only in his case bonding with Hyperion had been seen as a good thing.

“They wanted to banish me to the farthest Aerie possible. There were a handful of death threats, I figured out who sent them, none of them threatened to kill her, just me, a pure silver dragon is too valuable to kill. They couldn’t send me away though, too young, and again a silver dragon is far too valuable. So they stuck me with the man who would be my first flatmate, arsehole that he was. The whole Aerie liked Bellamy, treated her well, it would not do to have a silver lady like her grow up weak and frail, I on the other hand, if I died it wouldn’t be hard to replace me with a new ‘more suitable’ rider for her.”

“Where on earth were your parents, or Mycroft for that matter?” John squawked, appalled at what he was hearing. How could they have been that hard on a ten year old kid.

Sherlock snorted, “Mummy was a successful and sought-after rider, she flew round the world and often, by the time I was that age she was back to her regular routes. Papa was busy with his work, he was around, but in the immediate aftermath, he didn’t know what to do with me or with Mycroft really, so he was simply quiet and distant. He does regret it. Mycroft was away, he was seventeen and on his way to becoming a Master at Manchester Aerie, it would be years before he returned to London to vie for the position he currently holds.”

“How cruel,” John muttered. So Sherlock had basically had a dick of a flatmate and that was it.

“Oh, they did give me some bonding time,” Sherlock said as though he were pointing out the silver lining in it all. “Course she was as big as I was easily when she hatched, and I didn’t have a name for her. I had a large hatchling following me for days asking ‘what name? What my name?’ Over and over in my head.”

“So How did Bellamy come about?” John asked looking up at said dragon who was busy loving on Sherlock with nuzzling.

Sherlock glanced away at that with an embarrassed cough. “Well, er, she’s a French breed of dragon so it seemed only fitting, Bellamy means ‘beautiful friend’ and she is beautiful-” Sherlock was cut off by her forcefully nudging him in the back with the side of her muzzle, sending him sprawling forward towards John with a soft ‘oof’. John chuckled as she snorted at Sherlock who attempted to right himself without looking foolish. “Alright, fine,” he grumbled, “I was rather enamored with pirates when I was little - Part of the original plan was to take her and fly off to live life on the sea with my dragon on a ship - Bellamy was the name of a fairly famous French pirate.” Sherlock ground out, as though it pained him to admit such a silly childhood fantasy out loud. “Though I did pick the name because it does mean ‘beautiful friend’,” he said gazing up at her fondly. “She has always been my beautiful friend.”

John didn’t really know what to say to that, the depth of feeling Sherlock seemed to hold hidden just for Bellamy was incredible and contradicted so much of the normally rude uncaring persona he projected in his day to day life. If anything, Bellamy was pampered in the extreme because not only did she have Sherlock loving on her in secret, she also had others in the Aerie caring for her because they thought Sherlock was a sociopathic nuisance who wouldn’t do so properly. 

“But you do have other friends,” John said, thinking out loud.

“I do not,” Sherlock replied quickly, straightening up and looking at John as though he’d slapped him.

“Well then what do you call Mike, and Molly, and Mrs Hudson, and Angelo, they all seem to care about you. I know the nestlings like you, Mary has told me plenty when she’s helping me with Hyperion.”

Sherlock didn’t seem to know what to say to that for a moment he glanced away then his eyes came back, “They are not ‘friends’, acquaintances maybe, colleagues...” he drifted off. John was suddenly pushed by Bellamy from behind, she shifted her forelegs moving the sand and the pair of them between closer together till they were right next to each other, sand piled up around their waists. Sherlock looked to John and up to Bellamy, eyebrows raised, when he lowered his gaze again his mouth tried to goldfish out some words but nothing came for a second. “I guess I have you, though,” he finally managed, blue eyes still flicking up to Bellamy.

A small part of John really wished he knew what she was telling him because it was very obvious she was talking to him. He got the distinct impression that from the movements she was making she was pushing them together, like Harry had done with her dolls as a kid ‘you two go together now kiss!’ he remembered. John chuckled at that and finally did as Bellamy wanted, he closed the space between them and leaned into Sherlock, wrapping his arms around his thin chest in a hug. 

Sherlock sputtered at the contact, “John what are you doing?” he asked with a small hint of indignancy.

“If I’m reading her right, this is what she wants,” John murmured into Sherlock’s shoulder right next to his ear. For a long moment Sherlock remained stiff and fidgety like he didn’t know what to do. "She seems to want a human friend for you,” John added, squeezing a little tighter to get the point across.

He continued to sputter for a bit. "How? I… What?” before Bellamy nudged his back with her nose, pushing him into John. She was determined to bring them together now John was sure of it.

Sherlock finally closed his arms around John, returning the hug a little awkwardly at first, but then he seemed to give in and rested his head on John’s shoulder. "So you are my friend now? You do realize my ‘friends’ usually die or end up shipped away?” Sherlock asked softly, John could feel that deep baritone in his chest and that voice right against his ear made a small shiver run up his spine. "Caring is a weakness, Mycroft says.”

“I don’t mind some danger, and I don’t think I’m going anywhere soon,” John replied, “And your brother is an arse.” Sherlock laughed at that, a deep snort against John’s neck that made him laugh as well.

They sat together for a while, not saying anything, Sherlock holding onto John like a large teddy bear. 

“So why did you really come out here, Sherlock?” John asked quietly. 

“Was told I was wrong for a couple decades, found out I was actually right, kind of an overwhelming thing, decided to come out here and talk to Bell for a while and plan out where to go from here. We didn’t catch the kidnapper, just stopped the bomb. I get a sneaking suspicion we’ll be hearing from them again.” Sherlock replied into John’s shoulder, with his head leaned against John’s.

“Oh,” the fact that Sherlock even admitted that he had been feeling overwhelmed at all gave John a warm feeling in his heart, that Sherlock was trusting him finally and opening up a bit more. This evening had been the most John had seen Sherlock’s mask slip and fall since he’d met him, since the flatmate discussion. There was something vulnerable and soft and squishy in there that really pushed at John’s protective buttons, even before he’d really seen it he still wanted to be nearby and defend Sherlock. “You know you can talk to me, right?” John asked.

“Bell gets bored, just like Hyperion surely enjoys your company, she wants mine,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Well, humans need company from each other too, I don’t mind being around to talk with, get you out of that big head of yours,” John said. “Like you’ve told me multiple times, we’re sort of stuck together,” Much as he didn’t want to, he pulled back, Sherlock clung on for a second more before finally letting John go. Sherlock didn’t meet his eyes right away, looking like he’d overdone it on the hug, he’d been out of his shell for a little too long and needed to put that protective mask back on. “So, you think this kidnapper, bomber, person is going to come back?” he asked in an attempt to spare Sherlock the embarrassment and break the atmosphere of vulnerability.

It took a moment but Sherlock’s lips twitched into a small smile and he straightened up. "Of course they will, they said they wanted to play and watch me solve puzzles, one fairly easy puzzle does not a plurality make.” Sherlock said, smile becoming more of a smirk, “the fact that they had Carl’s shoe though does add a particularly interesting layer because -” 

“It means whoever killed him is also our bomber today.” John finished.

“Yep,” Sherlock popped the P on the word, he began to get up, unburying his legs and coat from the sand Bellamy had pushed up around them.

“Means that they couldn’t have been particularly old back then, or maybe they have someone helping them now,” John suggested taking Sherlock’s offered hand and rising out of the pile of sand as well. 

“Whoever this killer is has been here for years possibly, just biding their time, waiting, this will be fun. If anything it gets us out of those tedious classes, I wonder if they’ll strike again soon,” And off Sherlock went, starting for the door.

“Sherlock, it’s a bomber, a killer, we don’t want them to ‘strike’ again,” John reminded him, only to have Sherlock spin around and quickly jog back past him. Bellamy had her head bowed and Sherlock reached up to give her muzzle a good firm hug. 

Now he was off. “Where’s the fun in that?” Sherlock said, and all John could do is huff at that offering him a pointed ‘not good’ look. John did follow him though, giving Bellamy a goodbye pat on the nose, it wasn’t until they were out in the hall walking to wherever it was Sherlock had decided to go that John had a thought about the case, 

“Sherlock, what about that egg, the one that was supposed to be Carl’s, What happened to it?” John asked keeping close to Sherlock’s side.

“Another nestling was selected of course, it ended up being a scrawny hatchling anyway, needed help getting out of its shell, which is almost never a good sign. That would be Aidan actually, Jim’s dragon,” Sherlock said recalling the names quickly, “He had that, er, _delicate_ albino one.” 

John’s eyes widened at that revelation Jim Moriarty’s dragon had almost been Carl Powers’. _That’s a little spooky,_ he thought. Jim, creepy Jim, had not only lost his dragon but the way he’d gained him had been horrible as well. A very tiny warning bell niggled at the back of John’s brain, saying maybe that might mean something, but he shrugged it off. Just because Jim was a little odd didn’t mean anything, John had only known him after he’d lost Aiden and what had probably been rounds and rounds of therapy to get him functional again. Last thing the poor man needed was someone asking him about his deceased dragon.

And so they continued along, Sherlock leading the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that it took so long for this update, life got really crazy and hectic suddenly. I am working on the next chapter, I'm sorry I'm a bit of a slow writer sometimes. ^_^' I've just started back to college so that might have a bit of an impact on my writing, but I swear no matter how long it takes I will finish this fic.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who leaves comments and kudos and all the readers and subscribers and everyone else I might be forgetting, I love that you all are reading and enjoying this fanfic so much.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are always appreciated :)


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